


Predator

by emptycel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boarding School, Angst, Gen, Rape/Non-con Elements, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-23
Updated: 2014-04-26
Packaged: 2018-01-20 11:22:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 14
Words: 52,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1508669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emptycel/pseuds/emptycel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson just wanted a nice, peaceful year at Baker Academy, but when a sexual predator and serial rapist makes the school his hunting ground, John gets caught up in the crime solving whirlwind that is Sherlock Holmes.</p><p>Warning: References to sexual assault on under aged students.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This hasn't been beta'd. Any and all errors are my own, feel free to mercilessly point them out and laugh at me.

John looked up at the towering façade with a small shiver. His fear was irrational, he knew, but it settled in his stomach like a heavy weight. It was just another school, after all. He’d been to enough by now to understand how the routine usually went. He went in, introduced myself to a few people, met his roommate, and went through the motions of going to class until it was time for his inevitable departure.

 

That was the life of a military brat.

 

 _Listen here_ , he told himself sternly, marching up the front steps, _you have done this a dozen times before. There is no need to be nervous._

 

But there was, in a sense. This was going to be his last school. John made that deal with his parents years ago. He could spend his last year before University in the same place, no matter where his Dad was stationed. If he made a poor impression here, he was stuck with it.

 

The thought was not boding well.

 

Baker Academy was not exactly prestigious, but not bottom rung either. John’s family wouldn’t have been able to afford it if it weren’t for his small scholarship. It wasn’t anything fancy, just a small grant that military families could apply for. It covered some of tuition and a little room and board, just enough to get by on.

 

Other students were milling around the beautifully manicured front lawn, already in the cliques they established first year. John trudged through the groups, keeping his head down, happy, not for the first time, that he wasn’t exactly the kind of bloke that drew a lot of attention. He was on the short side, with sandy blonde hair and blue eyes. He didn’t stand out in a crowd.

 

John hoisted his duffel bag higher onto his shoulder and pushed the front door open, stepping into a clean, brightly lit hallway lined with classrooms and offices. He studied the map in his hand to make sure he was going in the right direction before marching forward, heading deeper into the school.

 

“Hey,” someone called, a deliberate attempt to catch someone’s attention that John instinctively ignored. “You! Hey! New guy!” John looked up reflexively this time, searching for the source of the voice. He smiled politely at the husky student that had called out.

 

“Yes?” John asked politely, shifting from foot to foot. He’d sprained his right ankle badly a couple months ago and his leg was getting stiff under the weight of his backpack and duffel. He just wanted to find his room and set his things down. 

 

“I’m Mike,” the boy, who looked John’s age, said with a jovial smile. John smiled back more genuinely, liking the guy instantly for his genuine expression. “Mike Stamford. Mrs. Hudson sent me to intercept you before you got lost in this bloody labyrinth.”

 

“Mrs. Hudson?” John asked, adjusting his bag again and trying to ignore the uncomfortable pain in his leg.

 

“School counselor,” Mike said, gesturing for John to follow him. “Nice lady. I’m her office aid. She sends me to do errands for her sometimes, but I usually just end up getting force fed tea and biscuits.” Mike patted his round stomach. “It’s been adding up, I’m afraid.”

 

He laughed loudly, and John joined in hesitantly. Mike continued confidently down the corridor and John followed close behind.

 

Mike had been right, after just a few moments of following him John was already lost in the twists and turns of the academy.

 

“This school is alright,” Mike continued, smiling and waving at people he knew. “There’s better, I’m sure, but she holds her own. The food’s good and most of the professors know what they’re doing, although our music department is a bit weak and our football team is atrocious. Can’t stand some of the underclassmen, but most of our last year is nice. Lot of fun blokes to hang out with, at least. Ah, here we are.” He stopped in front of one of the office doors, identical to every other door John had seen so far. He had no idea how he was going to recognize it again.

 

Mike opened the door without ceremony and ushered John inside. It was a pleasant room, with cream colored walls, wooden floors, a vase of flowers on a desk, and a pink upholstered arm chair where students sat as they spoke to their counselor. Mrs. Hudson herself was nowhere in sight until Mike cleared his throat loudly.

 

A grey haired head popped up from behind the desk, startling John so badly he nearly lost his balance.

 

“There you are dear,” Mrs. Hudson said, smiling at John as though he was a long lost grandson. “Sorry about that! I was just looking for a pen I dropped. I’m always losing things I’m afraid.” She extended her hand to John and he shook it, surprised by the strength in her grip. Her hands looked deceptively frail, but there was steel in her eyes that John instinctively admired.

 

“John Watson, correct?” she asked. She gestured to the arm chair. “Have a sit, dear. Mike, could you sort through some of the files in the back and get out Mr. Watson’s room assignment and schedule? I’m afraid it’s a bit a mess in here, dear,” she said,

leaning over the desk to speak confidentially to John. “Mike’s a bit lacking when it comes to cleaning up, to tell you the truth.”

 

“I can hear you!” Mike informed her from his position six feet away. “Here we are! Watson, John.” He handed the file to Mrs. Hudson, who pulled out a few brightly colored papers that she examined briefly, her face lighting up at one of them.

 

“Oh, you’ll just love your roommate,” she said, smiling brightly at the paper. “One of my favorite students, actually,” she whispered, as though it was her greatest secret.

 

John accepted the papers and put them with his map and the orientation information he had received in the mail. “Will that be all?” he inquired politely.

 

“Oh, goodness no!” Mrs. Hudson said, her hands suddenly a flurry above her desk. “Where are my manners? I’ve completely forgotten to welcome you to the school.” She settled down and gave John a warm smile. “Normally we don’t make a fuss for new students, but I glanced at your transcripts and my heart went out to you, poor dear. _Nine_ different schools in four years? Well, I thought that they must not have given you a good welcome if you hadn’t stayed, so I thought it best to greet you myself and make sure that you don’t start itching to get up and go before you’ve gotten a chance to settle! I want you to come to me if you ever need help, or if you just want a spot of tea and a biscuit! My office is always open.”

 

“Resist the biscuits, mate,” Mike advised, leaning in and stage whispering to John. “I swear she puts something in them. They’re too addictive to be legal.”

 

“Oh, stop it Mike!” Mrs. Hudson said with a laugh. “Go and show John where his room is. And be sure to introduce him to his roommate.”

 

“Yes ma’am,” Mike said with a laugh. John left the room in high spirits. If everyone at Baker Academy was a friendly as Mike and as sweet as Mrs. Hudson, he wasn’t going to have any problems here.

 

“Let me see your room assignment.” Mike took John’s offered paper and read it quickly, his expression first one of shock before it dissolved into mirth. “So that’s who Mrs. Hudson was talking about! Makes sense, of course.”

 

“What?” John tried to get another look at the paper, as though the unfamiliar name would suddenly mean something to him.

 

“He’s…a bit eccentric, your roommate. Honestly, you’re the first person administration has tried to bunk with him since last September. After what happened to the first one… I mean, I think he’s a good guy, but…”

 

Uh oh. John wasn’t liking the sound of this.

 

“I actually think you might get on,” Mike finally decided, seeming surprised at his own thought. “I hope so, anyway. For your sake.”

 

“What?” John repeated, the happy feelings draining from his body.

 

“Let’s see,” Mike continued, ignoring him. “Hall B, room 221. Second floor. Not ideal, but it’s a real nice dormitory, if I remember correctly. I haven’t been there in a bit, but most of the lads are jealous that the school freak gets it all to himself.”

 

“School freak?” John asked, the derogatory label a shock coming from Mike. Mike blinked, as though he wasn’t aware of what he just said.

 

“Oh, ignore that,” Mike said hastily. “I didn’t mean it, not really. I do like the bloke, I swear. It’s just what some of the other guys say, it tends to rub off. He’s actually really interesting. He calls himself a detective. Seventeen years old and he’s decided that he’s a detective solving crimes.”

 

They made a sudden right and continued down another corridor lined with doors. This one was filled with a bustling crowd of students, most of them with luggage of their own.

 

“Dorm Hall B is just through here,” Mike said, pushing his way though the students and forcing his way over the threshold of the open double doors. “There we are.” Mike pointed to a small plaque on the wall that confirmed their position.

 

“Room 221,” John repeated, looking at the numbers next to the doors.

 

“We’ll have to go up,” Mike said, gesturing to the staircase at the end of the corridor. “Come along then.” Mike set off again, and John followed the best he could, but at this point the stiff pain in his leg had created an awkward limp.

 

“This school is a lot bigger on the inside,” John commented as they started up the staircases. Mike laughed.

 

“Yeah, deceptive like that, isn’t it? Looks like your average academy on the outside, and on the inside it’s a freaking marathon just to get to your classes on time.”

 

They reached the landing of the second floor, and from there it was a brief stroll until they reached room 221.

 

“This is it,” Mike said, slightly winded from the trip up the stairs. He knocked lightly on the door and there was the sound of glass shattering. “Oh dear,” Mike said before the door opened.

 

A humorless young man regarded Mike with vague annoyance before zeroing in on John with boldfaced curiosity. John stared back, too startled by the intensity of the gaze to look away. The boy was tall, much taller than John, and lanky. He arms and legs seemed too long for the rest of his body, and he was thin and pale enough to look as though he was suffering from a long term illness. Dramatic cheekbones cast shadows over an otherwise gaunt face and silver eyes focused on John as though he could see right through him. John gulped, fidgeting. The stranger ran an elegant hand through tangled black curls before stepping aside.

 

“Well, come on then,” he said, his voice deep enough to make John double take, trying to equate the rich timber with the nearly skeletal boy in the doorway. “I suppose you’re the new roommate.”

 

“John Watson,” John said nervously, edging his way past the young man carefully.

 

“This is Sherlock Holmes,” Mike said, waving at Sherlock.

 

“Hi,” Sherlock said flatly to Mike, seeming bored with the social interaction already.

 

Mike grinned at John and shrugged. “Well,” he said, “I’ll just leave you to it then.” Mike waved and set off back down the hallway with a slightly forced spring in his step.

 

John turned towards the room and stared at it appreciatively. It was much bigger than he was expecting, more than enough room for two beds, two dressers, and two desks. Sherlock had also managed to cram what looked like an entire chemistry set onto one table and a full bookshelf between his bed and the wall.

 

John set his stuff on the other bed as Sherlock shut the door. He took a sleek cell phone out of his pocket and began tapping away busily. John sighed. He had been hoping for a little get-to-know-you conversation, but it seemed that wouldn’t be the case. Instead he sat down and began to stretch his leg.

 

Sherlock huffed in irritation for a moment, shaking his phone.

 

“Alright?” John asked, watching his new roommate in fascination.

 

“Battery died,” Sherlock muttered, tossing the phone onto his bed.

 

“Do you need mine?” John offered without thinking, taking his out of his pocket. Sherlock looked at him, blinking in grateful surprise, and accepted the device mutely.

 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asked after a moment of silence.

 

“What?” John jumped at the question.

 

“Your father. Where was he deployed? Afghanistan or Iraq?”

 

John froze, staring up at Sherlock with a combination of confusion and a little fear. “Afghanistan,” he said at last. “How did you…?”

 

“Here,” Sherlock said, handing the phone back. “Feel free to unpack your things, just don’t touch my stuff.”

 

Sherlock moved to the chemistry set where he stooped down to begin picking up small pieces of glass, the source of the shattering sound.

 

“What’s that?” John asked. Sherlock looked up at him in annoyance.

 

“An experiment,” he said shortly. “I do them from time to time. I hope you won’t mind.”

 

“I don’t,” John said honestly. “So long as you don’t expect me to understand them.”

 

“Oh, I don’t expect you to,” Sherlock said flatly.

 

John bit his lip. “Would you mind telling me how you knew--?”

 

“While we’re on the subject,” Sherlock interrupted, “I also can go days without speaking and I have a tendency to play the violin when I’m thinking. Do you think that will be a problem?”

 

John blinked, trying to keep up. Sherlock spoke at a mile a minute, and John was having issues following him.

 

“I don’t have anything against the violin,” he said at last.

 

“That’s good,” Sherlock said, chucking the glass into a bin and starting out of the room.

 

“Where are you going?” John asked as Sherlock opened the door.

 

“I think I’ve left some toxic chemicals in the dining hall, I thought I’d retrieve them before a potentially grievous mistake was made. Did you need something from me?” Sherlock asked, looking annoyed.

 

“It’s just--” John sputtered, trying to put his thoughts into words. “We’ve just met, we know nothing about each other, and we’re going to be roommates for the next year. I just thought we’d introduce ourselves a bit.”

 

Sherlock sighed and closed the door again. “Fine,” he said, turning to face John completely. He looked him up and down. “You’re a military brat. Your father was stationed in Afghanistan. You have an older brother you don’t get on with, probably because he parties too much and you disapprove of the lifestyle. You injured your foot badly a short time ago, your doctor told you it should be better by now but a small limp persists, probably psychosomatic, so it’s likely that you’re having other problems at home and the injury is taking some pressure off of you, although whether its sympathy or physical inability that’s doing the trick, I’m not sure. Now if you don’t mind I really have to leave before some idiot takes a fancy to drinking the caustic chemicals I’ve left sitting around. Have a good morning. I’ll see you in orientation.” With that, Sherlock opened the door, winked and walked out.

 

John exhaled very slowly and put his head in his hands.

 

This was going to be a long year.

 

 


	2. Chapter Two

John examined his schedule and tried to match the room numbers to the different areas of the school. Even on paper the place was bloody confusing.

 

He glanced at the clock and cursed. Orientation was starting in twenty minutes and he had no idea where the main reception hall was.

 

He stumbled out of the room, ignoring his stiff leg, and headed in the only direction he still remembered—out of Hall B.

 

John was unconsciously stomping, annoyed but trying to pretend that nothing was bothering him. How? How could someone know so much about him so fast? It wasn’t even as though he could have figured something out by asking around. John was brand new. And Harry’s drinking? He never talked about that. Not to anyone.

 

John was so caught up in his thoughts that he wasn’t paying enough care to his surroundings, which led him to running directly into a student with an armful of books. The entire stack crashed to the ground.

 

“I am so sorry!” John sputtered, immediately bending to pick them all up.

 

“Don’t worry about it!” the girl assured him. “I wasn’t paying any attention to where I was going.”

 

“Well, neither was I,” John muttered, handing the girl her books. She was tiny and cute, with auburn hair and a shy smile. “I’m John,” he introduced himself.

 

“Molly,” she replied, balancing the stack in one arm as she shook his had. “Are you new here?” she asked.

 

John nodded. Her face fell slightly.

 

“What is it?” John asked, startling at the vivid blush that bloomed over her cheeks.

 

“It’s nothing,” she said, her eyes downcast. John was fairly well versed in the strange language of young women (Harry had made sure of that) so he was well aware that there was, in fact, something. He folded his arms and waited patiently. “I was just looking for someone,” she finally answered, blushing deeper. “But you’re new, you won’t know him.”

 

John laughed. “You’ve got a point there. I’ve only met Mike Stamford and my completely mental roommate. And you, I guess.” For an instant John considered flirting, but quickly disabused himself of the thought. He knew a lost cause when he saw one, and Molly was obviously infatuated with someone else. “Could you help me real fast?” he asked as she started to edge away.

 

“Of course,” she responded readily.

 

“Can you point me in the direction of the Main Reception Hall? I have no idea where anything is.”

 

Molly smiled and gave him brief directions that John tried to commit to memory. He thanked the sweet girl and she scurried away, in search of…whoever it was she was looking for.

 

John ignored the map and followed Molly’s directions. With minor backtracking he made it to the Reception Hall just in time for the beginnings of Orientation. John sat in the back, distancing himself from the first years who were chattering excitedly with each other, looking rather like a pack of caffeinated squirrels.

 

The Reception Hall was a large lecture room with rows of seats staggered up, looking down at a sunken stage where a projector was flipping through the slides of a power point. A professor spoke into a microphone, reading the litany of useless material from each individual frame.

 

There was a flurry of movement at his side before someone rushed into the seat next to him, collapsing limply. John glanced up, surprised to find that Sherlock had joined him. The pale boy settled in his seat, pocketing a corked test tube as he did so. John had half hoped that Sherlock had been kidding about toxic chemicals, but evidently that was not the case.

 

Something occurred to John as a professor began droning on about safety guidelines.

 

“You aren’t new,” he whispered to Sherlock. It was a statement, not a question.

 

“Obviously,” Sherlock muttered, glancing around the room rapidly.

 

“Then why are you at Orientation?”

 

Sherlock smirked at him briefly before turning his attention back to the students again. John thought he was going to ignore the question before Sherlock finally answered.

 

“I skipped it last year,” he said shortly. “And I thought that it would be a good chance to catalogue the freshmen.” He pointed out an athletic looking kid who was constantly distracting those around him from the lecture. “Abused at home, vents the anger he holds towards his manipulative mother and deadbeat father in contact sports. He gets no attention in his house, so he tries to get as much as he can at school, positive and negative. He’ll be a problem student.” Sherlock pointed out an intelligent looking child who was obviously bored with the reception. “Kleptomaniac. Just before we came in here he stole another boy’s watch. That girl is a spelling bee champion with an irrational fear of clowns. There, that boy volunteers at an animal hospital, and that girl there was a dancing protégée until an injury three years ago which left her unable to continue lessons. And there--”

 

“You can’t do this,” John finally interrupted. Sherlock glanced back at him, looking annoyed and bored. “People can’t just…know everything about someone like that. You’ve got to be making it up.”

 

“Did I make up everything about you?” Sherlock asked, something mischievous dancing in his verdigris eyes. “I was right about it, wasn’t I? It’s the science of deduction, Watson. Everything you ever need to know is right before you, you just have to see it.”

 

“Then how?” John finally asked, his voice beginning to hinge on desperation. “How did you know everything about me?”

 

Sherlock glanced at him warily before smirking. “Your backpack,” he began. “You set it down with your duffel as soon as you came into the room. It wasn’t the standard backpack that you get at the market, oh no. It was military grade, designed for a combative soldier, and the coloring of the camouflage suggests a desert environment. The design is several years old, which logically suggest that the conflict took place in either Afghanistan or Iraq.

 

“How did I know it was your father? That’s more complicated. Your family wouldn’t be able to afford this school on their own, the duct tape sealing up a hole on the duffel bag speaks volumes on that end alone. That necessitates some sort of scholarship or grant to give you admission. Your right leg troubles you, so you wouldn’t be here for sports. Therefore, the remaining conclusions are academics or the military scholarship offered by the school. The deduction there was obvious, the backpack _was_ right there after all. The scholarship calls for a close family member, meaning it had to be your older brother or one of your parents. You hold yourself with military style, straight back, squared shoulders, and arms at ease. This suggests imitation from a figure you look up to, most likely your father since you disapprove of your brother’s habits.”

 

“How… did you know about Harry?” John finally interjected, feeling defensive on his sibling’s behalf.

 

Sherlock grinned and continued to speak. “Ah, your brother. The duffel bag used to be his. The tag on it says as much, although ‘Harry’ has been crossed out and your own name has been written above it. There are stains on the bag that belong to a yellowish brown substance, although that could be apple juice as easily as beer. Your phone, however, confirms alcoholism. A flip phone, several years out of date, therefore it’s most likely to be a hand me down, which is not surprising in a home with your family’s economic status. The phone is very banged up, frequently dropped, and there are small scuff marks near the port for the charger. The owner’s fine motor skills are frequently impaired. He fumbles and drops the phone when he calls for a ride, and his hand trembles when he plugs it back in for the night. Therefore, you brother is a drinker, most likely a partier due to his age. At university now, correct? At any rate, this behavior is not uncommon in a dysfunctional household; it’s likely a rebellion against your strict military father.

 

“This brings us to the limp. Your ankle was sprained, that much is obvious from the way you’re still used to putting your weight on it, but you no longer wear any sort of bandage or brace. It’s all healed up then, but you have a tendency to revert to the limp. Unless there is an internal reason for the limp to stick around, it is probably partly psychosomatic due to the stress in your household. As to whether it’s a cry for a detached parent’s attention or a defense mechanism to avoid abuse, I honestly can’t say, although I’m leaning more towards emotional negligence than physical violence. Did I get anything incorrect?”

 

John gaped at Sherlock, trying to fathom how someone could possibly do what he just did.

 

“That was…” John finally sputtered, “absolutely amazing.”

 

“Amazing?” Sherlock asked, cocking his head slightly to the side as though the compliment surprised him.

 

“Yes, of course,” John said, his voice still hushed. “What else?”

 

Sherlock was quiet for a second.

 

“That’s not what people normally say,” he said thoughtfully.

 

“What do people normally say?” John asked.

 

“‘Piss off,’” Sherlock replied dryly.

 

John was lost to a convulsion of giggles. After a moment Sherlock joined him. They laughed until a professor sternly banished them from the Reception Hall.

 

“I wonder what I was supposed to have learned,” John wondered as they were forced back into the corridor.

 

“Nothing of value,” Sherlock assured him. “‘Don’t break the rules’ and ‘make sure to give big donations when you graduate,’ that sort of thing, I’m sure.” Sherlock was didn’t say anything for a moment as they walked back to their dormitory. “ _Did_ I get everything right?” he asked after a brief hesitation.

 

“What?” John didn’t quite follow.

 

“About you, did I get everything right? I’m still working out the kinks in this science; feedback is critical.”

 

John sighed. “My father was stationed in Afghanistan. He started hitting the bottle hard when he came back. Funds have been low; they’re being used to support his habits. Harry, instead of learning from him, drinks to forget about it.”

 

“All of it, then? I didn’t think I’d done that well.” Sherlock seemed pleased with himself.

 

“Harry is short for Harriet,” John added with a small smile.

 

Sherlock scowled. “Sister! Argh, there’s always something.”

 

“It was still bloody brilliant,” John assured him, still blown away by the display. “Absolutely fantastic.”

 

“Oy!” a familiar voice called. John and Sherlock simultaneously turned around to look behind them. “There you two are! Glad to see you’re getting along, then!” Mike trotted up to them with a small package in his hands. He passed it to Sherlock. “Mrs. Hudson is having me run errands again. But look at you! Class hasn’t even started yet and you’re getting mail.”

 

“Interesting,” Sherlock said, pocketing the package. Mike looked like he was expecting some sort of explanation, but John was learning that he likely wouldn’t get anything. “Give Mrs. Hudson my regards. I’ll be at our appointment tomorrow afternoon, most likely.”

 

Sherlock started wandering off. John prepared to follow him, but Mike caught his arm.

 

“Getting on with him, then?” Mike asked, excitement bright in his eyes. John grinned.

 

“He’s a little off, but I might be able to get used to him,” John answered honestly. “Although it’s only been an hour.”

 

“An hour is more than enough to get a clear picture of Sherlock Holmes,” Mike laughed. “The fact that you haven’t already demanded a room reassignment is a blessing in itself! You two will be thick as thieves in the week!”

 

John was skeptical. He couldn’t see Sherlock becoming pals with anyone. John assumed that he was being allowed to tag along because Sherlock was bored.

 

“Right,” he said halfheartedly. “I’m going to go head back to my room, unpack a bit. I’ll catch you later?”

 

“Sure thing!” Mike said. “Have a good one!”

 

John turned away with a small smile and walked alone for about a minute before he realized that he had absolutely no idea where he was or where he was going. With a long suffering sigh he took his map out of his pocket again and began to navigate.

 


	3. Chapter Three

“I’m bored,” Sherlock declared that afternoon. John looked up from his papers. He had been attempting to memorize his schedule and the map of the entire campus. Sherlock, in the meantime, had conducted some sort of chemical experiment, studied something under the microscope for an hour, and paced around the room for what seemed like an eternity.

 

“It’s one o’clock on the first day,” John pointed out. Sherlock scowled at him.

 

“I don’t care, I’m bored,” he repeated, flopping down on his bed.

 

“Fancy getting lunch then?” John asked. He hoped that he could take the opportunity to get to know Sherlock a little better. He had asked him a few questions when he finally found his way back to the dorm, but Sherlock had declined to answer.

 

“I don’t eat,” Sherlock replied, his tone already stubborn, expecting an argument.

 

“I can tell,” John commented sarcastically. Sherlock was one of the boniest people he had ever seen. The young man was a study of sharp angles. John paused. “Do you really never eat?”

 

“I don’t eat unless I have to eat,” Sherlock amended. “My mind is the most important bit, the rest is just transport. I refuel as little as I can.”

 

“Um,” John wasn’t sure how to respond. Part of him wanted to give a lecture on the importance of proper nutrition, but he had a feeling that it would fall on deaf ears. “Well then, what do you want to do, if you’re so bored?”

 

“I want a puzzle,” Sherlock said petulantly.

 

“Like a game?” John asked helplessly.

 

“No! I want a mystery! A case!” Sherlock sat up.

 

John frowned before remembering something Mike said. “You’re a…detective, correct?”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock said, getting to his feet. “I’m a consulting detective, the only one in the world. I know, I invented the profession last year. When the police need a lead I drop in a couple of anonymous tips. They’d let me do more, but unfortunately I am trapped inside of a seventeen year old’s body and some sort of line must be drawn. In the meantime I practice my skills with the prefects here at the school.”

 

“Baker’s has prefects?” John groaned. Sherlock gave a rare, genuine smile.

 

“Your reaction is appropriate. They think they’re the law in this school, but they’re completely incompetent. At this point, once something happens they just ask me to clear it up. It is pointless and barely stimulating but it is better than nothing, and right now, I have nothing.” Sherlock leaned against the wall. “Few students will act out the first week of the term, I can’t expect anything worthwhile occurring for another month at the least.” Sherlock ran a hand through his curls. “If only it was interesting!”

 

“I’m sure something will turn up,” John said in hesitant reassurance. “Teenagers aren’t exactly known for their wise judgment.”

 

Sherlock’s lips twitched. “No,” he said at last. “They’re not.”

 

…..

 

The next morning John packed his bags with the feeling of a very heavy weight sitting on his shoulders. He had to make a good first impression with a lot of professors and classmates.

 

The twitchy genius that was by turns hovering over his shoulder or glancing at a microscope was only making it worse.

 

“Do you ever sit still?” John finally snapped as Sherlock continued to flutter around the room.

 

“Sometimes I don’t move for hours,” Sherlock answered without thinking. “Or days. It depends a bit. Are you quite done backing your bag yet? You’ve been staring at that notebook for two minutes and forty six seconds.”

 

“I’m just thinking,” John sighed. Sherlock gave one brief bark of laughter at the idea of John using his brain. “What about you then? Aren’t you going to get ready?”

 

“I am ready,” Sherlock said, pointing to an expensive looking laptop. “That’s all I need. Are you quite done? I want to check something before we go to class.”

 

John paused. “Are we going to class together?” he asked, the idea of Sherlock accompanying him somewhere seeming out of place.

 

“We have first period at the same time, it is logical. Besides, I need you to deflect some idiots for me.” With that Sherlock scooped up his laptop, put it in a bag designed for carrying such a device, and whirled out of the room.

 

John sighed, slung his backpack over his shoulders and followed Sherlock quickly, locking the door behind him as he went. Sherlock had remembered to give him a key the last night, but not before John had left to use the lavatory and found himself locked out at midnight. Fortunately, Sherlock never seemed to sleep. He spent the entire night reading or making an unreasonable amount of noise with his chemistry set.

 

Sherlock was already striding through the corridor at a rapid pace, and John had to trot briefly just to keep up.

 

The corridors were bursting with rushing, panicked students anxious to start the first day of term, but freshmen and seniors alike, all of them instinctively made a path for the unstoppable force that was Sherlock Holmes.

 

Sherlock, for lack of better terminology, stood out. It wasn’t just his appearance, which was eye catching enough, but the confident, arrogant way that he carried himself. It was apparent to anyone that looked at him that this was a superior specimen of _homo sapiens_. But there was little admiration from this deference. Instead he heard the word that had accidentally slipped from Mike’s lips the day before.

 

 _Freak_.

 

John’s loyalty to his roommate was tenuous, but strong enough that he bristled at the casual use of the derogatory label. But more than that was John’s utter bafflement that Sherlock didn’t seem to care, or even hear, what people said about him. Sherlock was only focused on the hurricane of thoughts in his mind and on the next destination.

 

 _Speaking of which_ …

 

“Where are we going?” John asked before he became completely lost in the twisting hallways.

 

“Dorm Hall A,” Sherlock replied. “I have someone I need to speak with and I need you to distract someone who wants to speak with me. I really don’t have time for him this morning, I have to check on an experiment.”

 

“Okay,” John said, resigning himself to being Sherlock’s distraction. What else was he going to do that morning anyway? Spend twenty minutes trying to decide which pen he should bring to his first day of class?

 

Sherlock did not casually stroll. Every step devoured the distance between him and his destination and Jack was breathing heavily by the time they reached Hall A.

 

Sherlock stopped in front of a door and knocked on it insistently until it was open. An attractive black girl stared back at him with a scowl. John noticed after a second that she had some sort of badge pinned onto her uniform.

 

“Sally, meet John,” Sherlock said. “Molly!” he called into the room. The cute girl with auburn hair poked her head out into the hallway.

 

“Hi, Sherlock,” she said, blushing pink as soon as she saw him.

 

“Oh, hello Molly,” John said out of reflex. Molly glanced at him for the first time, looking confused before smiling hesitantly.

 

“You’ve met,” Sherlock commented apathetically. “Good, saves introductions. John, talk to Sally.”

 

Sherlock edged passed the irritated young woman who was still partially blocking the doorway.

 

“Hi,” John said, feeling phenomenally uncomfortable.

 

“What are you doing following the Freak around?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. John shifted from foot to foot, his leg suddenly bothering him again. “He doesn’t have friends, so don’t try to pull that.”

 

“We’re roommates,” John answered honestly. For half a second Sally looked at him with something closer to pity before her features settled back into an irritated scowl.

 

“Shame,” Sally said. “If I were you, I’d spend as little time with him as possible.”

 

“Why?” John asked, part defensive, part genuinely curious.

 

“Sherlock Holmes…” Sally seemed to have trouble finding the words. She glanced back at the room behind her before stepping out into the hallway and shutting the door. “Sherlock Holmes is a psychopath. He’s the kid that would pull off a butterfly’s wings just to see how long it would take to die. Every school has someone like him, and trust me when I tell you that he isn’t safe to be around. One day he’s going to get bored experimenting on dead rats and he’s going to hurt someone. Don’t let it be you.”

 

The scary thing was that Sally seemed one hundred percent serious. John felt a small knot of fear in his stomach before it was eased away by doubt. Sherlock was…odd, yes, but he couldn’t see him as violent or dangerous.

 

He opened his mouth to speak when Sally suddenly directed her attention to someone else.

 

“And who is this?” someone asked in a slightly rough accent.

 

“The Freak’s got himself a roommate,” Sally told the student.

 

John looked to see a young man, most likely a senior, of just above average height and dark hair adjusting a badge on his jacket, identical to the one Sally wore.

 

“Greg Lestrade,” he said, offering his hand. John shook it, his fingers lost in the powerful grip. “And you are?”

 

“John Watson.” They broke apart. “Pleasure.”

 

“Sherlock’s roommate, you said?” Greg smiled a big, genuine smile. “Well, that will be interesting. I can’t say I envy you.”

 

“It’s alright,” John said, changing the subject. “Are you prefects?”

 

“Yeah,” Greg said, waving it off. “But not much happens here. We basically just tell people to stop running in the hallways.”

 

“Sherlock was saying that he helps out occasionally,” John stated, but he really wanted to ask them a million questions about his frustratingly private roommate.

 

“Oh, if something actually happens, you know, something gets stolen or a huge fight breaks out and we can’t figure out how or why, then Sherlock comes around and fixes it in a couple minutes. I feel bad,” Greg added, ignoring Sally’s deepening scowl. “I wish I could give him something more interesting but--”

 

“Nothing interesting ever happens,” Sherlock interrupted as he opened the door. He pocketed something sealed up in a plastic bag as he emerged from Molly’s room. John caught a glimpse of its contents and wasn’t sure if he wanted to know exactly what it was. “But that’s to be expected.”

 

“In the future, _Freak_ ,” Sally spit, “please don’t keep experiments in my room.” Sally pushed passed Sherlock and went inside, slamming the door behind her. Greg exhaled slowly in the awkward silence that followed.

 

“I wanted to talk to you, by the way,” Greg finally said to Sherlock. Sherlock immediately started to walk away.

 

“Talk to John instead. John, makes friends,” Sherlock commanded, leaving them both behind.

 

John ran a hand through his hair, already feeling exhausted. “Always like that, is he?” John inquired. Greg laughed.

 

“Oh, always,” Greg assured him. He pulled out his phone to check the time. “Oh, it’s nearly time for class. Do you know where you’re going?”

 

“Not really,” John admitted. “Can you point me to the biology rooms?”

 

Brief instructions were given and John left Greg with a fervent thanks.

 

John traced the path that Sherlock must have taken, biting back a wave of irrational disappointment. He knew that Sherlock didn’t exactly care for his company, but he didn’t think he would find himself so readily abandoned in an unfamiliar part of the school.

 

He found the room a minute before the bell was scheduled to ring. As he anticipated, Sherlock was already in the class, lounging carelessly in one of the desks, his limbs slightly too long for comfortable accommodation.

 

A pretty brunette glanced at him and gave him a smile as he entered. He smiled back and searched for his name on a seating chart posted on the front board.

 

John sat in his assigned seat at the back of the class and took out a notebook. The bell rang and there was no sign of a teacher. Molly Hooper poked her head in guiltily and, finding the coast clear, quickly slipped into her seat. Still no teacher.

 

“Well this is tedious,” Sherlock finally declared. Almost as if he was waiting for Sherlock to say something, the professor entered the room, slightly breathless and his tie askew. He set it down on the desk, straightened his tie, and walked to the front of the room.

 

“Hello class,” he said, picking up a dry erase marker. “I’m sorry I’m late. I got dragged away a few minutes ago to answer a call. The reception here is terrible. I was outside before I could get a single bar of signal.” He wrote his name on the board. _Mr. Z_. “Trust me when I tell you that my initial is much easier to say than my last name.” He turned back to face the room.

 

Mr. Z was in his mid to late twenties, with messy brown hair, glasses, and what looked like a coffee stain on the collar of his white shirt. John wasn’t sure what to make of him immediately, but took comfort knowing that at least he wasn’t the only one trying to make a good first impression today.

 

John couldn’t help but glance at Sherlock, wondering what his opinion was. He merely looked bored and was staring at the ceiling as though something entertaining would magically drop down.

 

“I’ll let you guys mingle for a bit,” Mr. Z said, moving back towards his desk. “I need to organize some things, so chat with each other for a few minutes.”

 

John immediately tried to see who he might be able to make friends with. A group of lads already formed in one of the corners of the room. He glanced over at them until one of the guys gave him a nod of invitation.

 

“I’m John,” he said, joining the group and shaking hands. “John Watson.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Watson,” a friendly if rather bland boy said. “The name’s Trevor. Trevor Thompson, and before you ask, yes, I do appreciate alliteration.”

 

“Bryce,” another said, a red head with very blue eyes. “Bryce Kent. How do you do?”

 

“Ian,” a blonde introduced himself. “Ian Richmond.”

 

“Sam Prince,” said a boy with eyes and hair the same shade of golden brown.

 

“Stanley Myers,” finished the last, a boy as tall as Sherlock with the fairest hair that John had ever seen. It was nearly white.

 

“Pleasure,” John said. With the introductions completed they began a rather generic conversation about football that John was happy to be a part of.

 

“Alright, alright,” Mr. Z called, moving back up to the front of the room. “Sit down. And don’t worry about the assigned seats. Sit wherever you like.”

 

John sat near but not really with the group of guys he had been chatting with and twitched in surprise when Sherlock relocated his seat next to John.

 

“I wouldn’t waste my time with them,” Sherlock muttered, flicking his gaze over at the boys. “They’re dull. Besides, Ian is cheating on his girlfriend, Trevor has serious anxiety problems, Sam—”

 

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, lightly scolding. “It’s fine.”

 

Sherlock looked annoyed but actually stopped speaking for once. He took out his laptop and began clicking away instead.

 

“If I could have your attention,” Mr. Z said pointedly. Sherlock ignored him. Mr. Z cleared his throat. Sherlock continued to type. It briefly appeared there would be a battle of wills before Mr. Z shrugged and began the lesson.

 

John found himself paying more attention to his roommate than the lesson, trying to pick apart the puzzle he presented. One moment Sherlock is abandoning John when he new very well that John had no idea where he was, and the next he was sitting next to him as though it was his God given right.

 

John was beginning to get annoyed.

 

The ring of the bell was a merciful reprieve. John picked up his things and walked out, already headed to his next class.

 

Sherlock remained in his desk, typing as though he was running out of time to do

so.

 

…..

 

John hadn’t thought that he hated violin music. But at two o’clock in the morning after a long and exhausting first day of school, it was not something that he wanted to hear.

 

“Can you please stop?” he finally moaned. Sherlock responded by playing several notes that sounded more akin to nails on a chalkboard than music before continuing.

 

John was about to get up and forcibly take away the violin when a ear shattering scream echoed through the entire dorm hall. He and Sherlock locked eyes briefly before they tore out of the room and tried to find the source.

 

“What’s happening?” John asked Sherlock, as though he knew.

 

Sherlock smiled the biggest, most genuine smile John had seen from him.

 

“Something exciting.”

 

 


	4. Chapter Four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter I up the rating to mature for some pretty heartless depictions of and responses to violence and rape. Trigger warning for brutal sexual assault, please don't continue reading if it upsets you.

It was on the first floor, and a small group of students had already gathered. A girl John vaguely recognized stumbled out of her room, blood staining her pajamas. She was in his biology class, John realized, the pretty brunette who had smiled at him. He hadn’t caught her name.

 

“What happened?” someone was asking her. She was trembling. John knew shock when he saw it. He tried to make the crowd back away from her.

 

“I don’t--” she stopped. Her words were slightly slurred and her eyes were a bit out of focus. “I--”

 

“She’s been drugged,” Sherlock declared. He stepped forward, looking for all the world that he was in charge of the situation. He was the only one not in pajamas. His uniform didn’t have a single crease, completely pristine. Among the sleep rumbled students he exuded an authority that resulted in complete deference from his classmates.

 

Sherlock pulled out a small flashlight from his pocket. “You,” he said, nodding to a random student. “Please get head prefect Lestrade. I’d rather speak to him before security got involved. He’s in Dorm Hall A.”

 

The student ran off. John recognized him as Ian from their biology class. The thought was fleeting, unimportant in face of the bleeding woman in front of him. Instinct took over and John broke from the crowd to stand next to Sherlock, taking the girl’s pulse. It was slow. “Someone get me a blanket,” he ordered over his shoulder. Her fingers were ice.

 

Sherlock shined the light in her eyes then opened her mouth and shined it down her throat.

 

“Where is this blood coming from?” John wondered out loud, trying to find a wound and failing.

 

“I have a theory,” Sherlock said, his voice distant. “But I need to be sure. What is your name?” he asked the girl. She thought hard for a second.

 

Through trembling lips he muttered “Jenny. Jenny Tanner. What’s happening?”

 

“Why did you scream, Jenny?” Sherlock asked.

 

She focused, still trying to remember as someone handed John the blanket. He put wrapped it around her. She snuggled into it gratefully.

 

“It _hurts_ ,” she finally whimpered. “It hurts and it’s _wrong._ ”

 

“What hurts?” John asked, but Sherlock cleared his throat, a satisfied smile spreading over his face.

 

“I would imagine quite a bit of her hurts. If you would only look for a second you would notice that most of the blood has soaked into her pajama trousers. Likely there are bruises on her thighs and on the inner walls of her--”

 

“Sherlock!” John cut him off quickly, realizing with a dawning sense of horror where this was going.

 

“She’s been violently raped,” Sherlock finally said. “Obvious. I’m amazed she’s standing. The pain has likely been dulled by the GHB in her system.”

 

There was a rush of movement as the crowd parted and Greg arrived with a mousy boy with brown hair and an unpleasant presence. John instantly disliked him. Sherlock scowled at the boy. The boy scowled back.

 

“Anderson,” Sherlock finally muttered in greeting. He turned to Greg. “Get this girl to the infirmary quickly. She’ll likely have to be carried. The more the drug wears off, the more pain she will be in. Once she’s taken care of get security. Not before, not after, do you understand?”

 

“You aren’t in charge, Sherlock,” Greg muttered, but he was nodding and doing what Sherlock ordered anyway. “Anderson, start asking questions. The more we can give security, the better.”

 

With a surprising show of strength, Greg scooped Jenny up princess style and began carrying her towards the infirmary. Ian from Biology accompanied them, appearing once again out of nowhere.

 

“And what were you doing, Freak?” Anderson immediately rounded on Sherlock, standing on his tip toes to get in his face. Sherlock stared him down without changing expression before giving a tragic sigh.

 

“Oh Anderson,” Sherlock implored, “please stop speaking. You’re desecrating the sanctity of a learning environment with your infectious stupidity.”

 

Sherlock turned away and walked into Jenny’s now empty room.

 

“Hey! Don’t go in there,” Anderson tried to follow him, but John caught the sleeve of his sleep shirt before he consciously registered the intention of performing the action.

 

“Hi, don’t I need to give an alibi or something?” John stalled, knowing that there was likely a good reason that Sherlock needed to looking around the room.

 

“Can’t you wait?” Anderson spit. John scowled.

 

“I thought you might want to know,” John said, trying to come up with a lie quickly, “that I saw someone run out of the hallway just before everyone got here. Yeah, I was already out of my room because I had to…use the loo…so I heard the scream first. Someone else was here. He went that way.” John pointed down the hall.

 

“Why didn’t you say something?” Anderson took off running in the direction John had indicated. John exhaled slowly, wondering belatedly if there would be consequences to what he just did.

 

He entered the room hesitantly, standing aside as Sherlock flitted from place to place, looking at everything with a small pocket magnifying glass.

 

“You got rid of Anderson,” Sherlock commented. “Thank you. And it will keep the idiot brigade occupied with a false suspect for a while. I might even be able to set them on the proper path before they realize they’re chasing shadows.” Sherlock looked up and gave a brief smile. “If they realized you lied, you do realize that you’ll immediately become the suspect, correct?”

 

John felt like he swallowed a cannon ball. “Yeah, that seems about right,” he muttered. “So what are you looking for?”

 

“Anything that doesn’t belong,” Sherlock muttered. “Jenny doesn’t have a roommate, as you can see,” John looked, noticing the bed bare of sheets and pillows for the first time, “so the rapist would have been able to break in and commit the crime without witness or interruption.” Here Sherlock gestured to Jenny’s bed, and John felt faintly sick. There was a pool of blood on the sheets. He noticed a few drops on the floor from when Jenny stumbled out of the room.

 

“Jesus Christ,” John muttered, biting back nausea. “Would she really have bled so much from, um…”

 

“Not from her hymen tearing, if that’s what you’re referring to,” Sherlock muttered in his cold, detached voice. “This was likely a result of the force, and possible penetration from a foreign object. Some rapists prefer to--”

 

“I get it!” John interrupted. In all honesty he was more disturbed by Sherlock’s attitude than what Sherlock was saying. He seemed…excited. Thrilled. Giddy, even. “Just…jeez, Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock looked profoundly irritated. “I am emotionally detached John, it keeps me from missing details. If it bothers you, feel free to get out.”

 

It was a pointed dismissal, but John stood where he was stubbornly. Sherlock sighed and continued inspecting.

 

“Small scuff mark on the ground,” he said, kneeling on the floor. Sherlock touched his fingers to it and sniffed. “From a shoe, not furniture. Leather, obviously. Good quality, most likely expensive shoes.”

 

“So…from a businessman?” John suggested idiotically, trying to think of who wore expensive leather shoes.

 

Sherlock gave him a ‘you really shouldn’t try to think’ look before dusting his hands off.

 

“Not necessarily. The shoes required for the uniform are expensive. It could have been any student wearing the standard shoes,” Sherlock held up his own foot as exhibit A, “or anyone else with a pair of nice dress shoes. Doesn’t narrow it down much.” Sherlock took one last look around the room, frowning. “Nothing. Nothing I can use. He was meticulous. Assuming it was a man.”

 

“Who else…” John started before he realized he probably didn’t want to know the answer.

 

“A foreign object was used, John. Judging from the amount of blood it had a sharp corner or edge. Anyone could have done that to a person. We won’t know until doctors examine her if she had been raped in the traditional way as well.”

 

John shuddered, trying not to think about it. “Come one,” he finally said. “I don’t think that we want to get caught in here. Not after I sent that prick Anderson sprinting down the hallway.”

 

Sherlock grinned, following John out of the room. “He looked ridiculous when he ran, didn’t he?”

 

“Like a chicken with its head cut off,” John agreed, giggling. Sherlock hesitated before joining.

 

“We shouldn’t giggle at a crime scene,” Sherlock finally gasped. John laughed harder for a second before the full weight of the situation sobered him.

 

“God, her life is ruined, isn’t it?” John commented, following Sherlock back up to their room. “I mean, I can’t think of anything more horrible…”

 

“She could have been killed,” Sherlock pointed out. “At least her life will continue. At she likely won’t remember any of this when she wakes up in the morning.”

 

“I don’t think that makes it better.”

 

“Perhaps not,” Sherlock conceded. “But it’s better than the alternative. The rapist drugged her because he had no intention to kill her. If he kept her conscious, he would have to kill her to ensure that he wouldn’t get caught. It’s strange, but he was merciful, in a way.”

 

John didn’t know what was worse: Sherlock’s dark logic or the fact that John understood it.

 

“What are you going to do?” John asked as they entered their room. “I mean, the police will get involved and it isn’t as though they will let you help.”

 

Sherlock sighed. “I’m limited by my age,” he admitted. “I’m not eighteen until January, and even then I will have a problem getting anyone to listen.” Sherlock began pacing as John collapsed onto his bed. “If only I had access to more equipment! I could have run analysis on the scuff mark! Do you have any idea what I can learn from a scuff mark? The exact material of the shoe and everywhere the owner had been in at _least_ the last twenty four hours! All I have are chemicals and a microscope. It’s not enough.”

 

Sherlock sat down on his bed and put his head in his hands. “I’ll do what I can,” he finally muttered, “to solve this case. And I _will_ solve it.”

 

“Alright, alright,” John said. “I’ll help where I can, and please don’t do anything drastic by yourself.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“Don’t go,” John struggled for an example, “chasing after the rapist by yourself. He’s obviously dangerous. At least make sure I’m with you, if you refuse to involve security. Why did you make Lestrade wait, by the way?”

 

Sherlock snorted. “I’m amazed you didn’t figure it out. I just wanted to delay those idiots before they ruined all the evidence. A crime scene that’s been even slightly manipulated is completely useless.”

 

“I see.”

 

“At the moment there are too many suspects,” Sherlock muttered. His eyes were closed but John could see rapid movement under the lids. “There’s little I can do to narrow it down. If the girl had died I would have been able to examine a corpse. As it is, I doubt she would allow me to give her a full examination. Hm.”

 

Sherlock was silent for a minute. John watched warily, half expecting him to jump up and start running around the campus.

 

“Go to sleep,” Sherlock finally ordered, glancing at John briefly. “There’s a great deal of thinking to do before I can act. And you’ll need to wake up in an hour or two anyway.”

 

“Why?” John asked, glancing at the clock. It would be quite some time before school started.

 

“If you insist on coming with me,” Sherlock snapped, “then you will have to do it on my own terms. We need to break into the infirmary and glance at the preliminary records of the victim’s examination. Of course they wouldn’t have done anything extensive, just enough to make some notes for the paramedics. The victim would have been taken to the hospital by now, most likely, so any other information will be out of our hands.”

 

“And how do you intend on breaking into the infirmary?” John asked, half incredulous that it wasn’t the idea itself that he was thinking about, but exactly how they were going to do it.

 

“Molly Hooper,” Sherlock said shortly. “She’s the nurse’s aide. I pinched a set of keys from her room this morning.”

 

“Won’t she notice?”

 

“Definitely,” Sherlock said, waving the concern away. “But there’s no chance that she’ll tell.”

 

John silently agreed that was probably true.

 

John climbed back under his sheets and shut his eyes, trying to forget the image of blood splattered sheets as he breathed deeply.

 

He was shocked by how well he slept.

 

…..

 

“This is absolutely insane,” John muttered, fidgeting as Sherlock unlocked the door. It was six o’clock in the morning, the nurse wouldn’t be in for another hour, and John was beginning to question whether or not the decisions he had made in the last two days were rational.

 

“Stop worrying,” Sherlock reprimanded, opening the door. “It’s making your thinking louder than usual. I find it exceedingly annoying.”

 

John gave up and followed Sherlock inside.

 

The nurse’s office was blindingly white. White walls, white floors, white counters, white cot in the corner. Sherlock immediately headed for a filing cabinet, jimmied it open, and searched for the necessary file.

 

John examined the medicine cabinet curiously. He was interested in medicine and mentally catalogued any drugs he recognized.

 

“Sherlock,” John said suddenly, earning a grunt of irritation. “Xyrem is missing.”

 

Sherlock froze with the file in his hand. “What makes you say that?” he asked, rushing over to where John stood.

 

“The shelf is labeled where the bottles should be,” John explained. “But Xyrem is missing. You know the drug--”

 

“With the same chemical compounds as Gamma- Hydroxybutyric acid. Used for treating narcolepsy. There is one narcoleptic student at this school, a second year who would have given the office some medication. Brilliant, John.” Sherlock’s mind was obviously racing, he tucked the file in his arm, shut the filing cabinet and gestured for John to follow him out of the office.

 

“You want to be a doctor,” Sherlock stated suddenly.

 

“Yes,” John answered.

 

“That’s how you knew about the drug. You want to be a doctor. Oh, John Watson, you may be more useful than I thought.”

 

“Thank you…?”

 

“The boy’s name is Anthony Blithe. He’s too young to be in any of our classes, but I’ll get some of my associates on it. We will be able to determine if he had anything to do with the murders. He would have a ready supply of Xyrem on hand, after all. Granted it isn’t nearly as potent as concentrated GHB, but perhaps if he mixed it with alcohol…but when? When did the rape occur? Even concentrated GHB takes some time to kick in. We need to talk to the victim, find out what she remembers from the day before.”

 

“Could someone else have stolen the medication?” John asked, trying to keep up with Sherlock physically and mentally.

 

“Of course,” Sherlock said, sounding bored at the idea, although he did pull out his phone and tapped a few quick things in. “I thought so. Anyone who googles the drug can easily see that sodium oxybate, or Xyrem, is a form of GHB. The internet has made crime so delightfully easy. Instructions for theft, rape, and murder, right there at your fingertips.”

 

“So a trip to the nurse’s office and they pinch the drug they need? That’s it?” John was horrified with how easy the preparation for the crime had been.

 

“Perhaps,” Sherlock said, pocketing his phone. “Although most schools wouldn’t have any sort of narcoleptic drug in their medicine cabinet. Thus, Anthony Blithe. I can’t think of anyone besides him, Molly, and the nurse herself that would even know that the drug was there.”

 

“Except you,” John said thoughtlessly, unaware until he had already uttered it that it sounded like an accusation.

 

“Oh, don’t get fussy, John,” Sherlock said, his voice heavy with scorn. “I’ve read the medical files of every student in this school. I have it all up here.” He tapped his head with an index finger. “This sort of information is invaluable. You can see why, after all of this. I like to keep an index of potential suspects on hand at all times. This school is, essentially, a locked room. While the student body is large, it is limited. Locked room mysteries are my favorite. _Everyone_ has something to hide.”

 

“So you think it was a student then?” John asked. “Not a faculty member, not some creep who broke into the school?”

 

“Possible, but unlikely. There are no new teachers this year, so why now? Why would a teacher who has been here for years suddenly decide to attack a student? As far as a prowler goes, the victim was one of the few students in this school without a roommate. A random ‘creep,’ as you so eloquently put it, would have known that about the victim, yet she was attacked in her room. This had to be someone who knew her, who knew that they wouldn’t get caught if they assaulted her in her dorm. The rapist could have looked up the victim’s room assignment in the front office, but that suggests a level of premeditation. If the crime was so premeditated, why steal the Xyrem? Why not buy GHB off the street? No, this was likely a crime of passion, of sorts. Perhaps an unstable student who was jilted by the victim and exacted a revenge, or sorts.”

 

“Jenny,” John finally interrupted, unable to contain his irritation anymore.

 

“Pardon?”

 

“Jenny, her name is Jenny. She isn’t a faceless victim Sherlock, she’s our classmate. She’s in our biology class, for Christ’s sake.”

 

Sherlock was silent for a second. “You care,” he finally said, as though the notion surprised and confused him. “You care about the victim—about Jenny.”

 

“I do!” John exclaimed. “It’s called sympathy, Sherlock. You could try it sometime.”

 

“Tedious,” Sherlock muttered, flipping open the file still in his hands. “Hm. It seems that there was bruising on her shoulders, hips, thighs…small lacerations on the insides of her thighs, but, as I anticipated, most of the blood came from a wound inside. The nurse didn’t examine her thoroughly. Apparently the victim—argh, Jenny—started to become progressively more coherent and reacted violently when a proper examination was attempted. The ambulance arrived quickly. The nurse only had enough time to determine that there wasn’t much she could do.” Sherlock snapped the folder shut. “Well, that only confirms what I suspected, nothing new.”

 

“A waste of time then?” John sighed.

 

“Not at all,” Sherlock said with a small grin. “The bruising on her hips and thighs suggests that she was gripped tightly by both hands with the rape occurred, not something that could be managed with a foreign object. Likely the rape occurred first, and then she was cut with the sharp object. It eliminates the potential that a female could have done this. While the possibility was statistically small, it existed. Now it no longer does and the suspect pool has been cut in half. It certainly narrows things down a bit. Besides, you found the Xyrem, or, rather, the lack of it. That information alone could be invaluable. And it gives us a good place to start.”

 

Sherlock looked over at John with a gleam of something wicked and wild in his eyes. “What do you to having a nice chat with Anthony Blithe?”

 


	5. Chapter 5

"Class will be starting in two hours," John pointed out, glancing at the time on his phone. Sherlock just rolled his eyes.

"Plenty of time," the young detective declared. "We'll drop the file back at our room, find out where Anthony Blithe is living, and speak to him briefly."

"You aren't going to accuse him of being a rapist in front of the entire school, are you?" John asked warily, stifling the urge to point of how very  _not good_ that idea was.

"Oh, of course not," Sherlock said, his mind obviously somewhere else. "I don't think he did it at all, actually. I just need to know everything he knows about his medication, and what he might have told other people. It's possible he's one of those obnoxious children who broadcast everything about his or her condition in an effort to obtain special treatment. If that's the case, then anyone he would have spoken to could know about Xyrem. Although, it wouldn't hurt to make him a bit anxious first. People are much more willing to speak when they're trying to prove their innocence."

"Hm."

They didn't say anything else as they went back to their dorm room. Sherlock dumped the file on his bed, not bothering to hide it.

"Don't you want to be…" John fumbled. "I don't know, more secure with that?"

"It will be fine, just as long as you don't invite people into our room. By the way, we should probably discuss boundaries for such things."

"I agree!" John said, excited that Sherlock was finally being receptive to what he had been trying to talk about for days. "I think-"

"Never let anyone into the room and we will be fine," Sherlock finished.

John wilted. He didn't bother arguing. He figured it would be best to keep any potential friends as far away from Sherlock as possible, anyway.

"Now," Sherlock said, sitting cross legged on his bed and opening up his laptop. "We just have to figure out what room Mr. Blithe is in."

"You can find out from there?" John asked in amazement, sadly aware that the only thing he could manage to do on a computer was send e-mails, watch videos, and Google the answers to his homework.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I hacked the school's security system last year, and they still haven't updated their software or changed any passwords. All the school files are here at my fingertips, provided they've been added to the data base." Sherlock glanced at the manila folder lying on his bed. "I searched for those records while you were sleeping. The nurse hadn't entered them in. I'm not as fond of hard copies, but I suppose that it will do for now. Here," he said, clicking open some files. "The housing for all the students in the school."

"Am I…bookmarked?" John asked, glancing over Sherlock's shoulder.

"Yes," Sherlock answered. "I was afraid admin was going to room you with me."

"Ah," John said quietly. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock paused, thinking. "Don't be," he finally decided. "All things considered, you could have been much worse. And you aren't as stupid as some of the other students."

"Thank…you?"

"You're welcome."

"Right."

"It looks like he's in Hall A," Sherlock muttered. "Second floor. Down the hall a ways. We'll be able to get there in plenty of time. In the meantime, I wanted to ask you something."

"About what?" What could Sherlock possibly hope to learn from John?

"You spoke to Jenny in Advanced Biology, yesterday morning," Sherlock said. "I want you to tell me what she was like. It's imperative that I get a feel for her personality. Crimes such as this can be set off by anything. The more I can narrow down the cause, the better."

"She was nice," John said. "Cute. Very friendly. Chatted with a lot of people. Didn't say much to me, really. Didn't even introduce herself. Just smiled and said hello."

"Hm," Sherlock said, shutting his laptop with a definitive click. "I assume that this would make her seem likable to most of her classmates?"

"Can't you tell?" John asked in irritation. Sherlock just stared at him. "Right, sorry," John muttered, moving to the other side of the room. Sherlock didn't do social interaction; John had somehow managed to forget that for a moment.

"I've never investigated a rape before," Sherlock muttered thoughtfully, lying down on the bed. John twitched, slightly surprised with the sudden shift in Sherlock's thought direction. "I must admit that this territory is unfamiliar. It can be a crime of twisted love and passion, a crime of possessive dominance, a crime of pure sadism, or some combination thereof. It's strange." Sherlock glanced at John, his eyes icy blue in the early morning light peeking through the windows. "Are you sure that you have the stomach for this? It could be dangerous."

John smiled, sitting on the edge of his bed. "I know, mate," he sighed, noticing that, for the first time in a long time, his leg wasn't bothering him at all. "Why do you think I'm here? Someone has to keep you from getting hurt."

…

Sherlock was very unhappy. Anthony had somehow managed to evade the two of them, forcing the young detective to wait until class was over before he could begin his questioning.

They cut their last period and waited around the corner from Anthony's class until the dismissal bell rang.

_Second day of school,_  John thought with a tiny grin,  _and I'm already cutting class._

Sherlock was excited. He was bouncing up and down on his toes impatiently, watching the clock with the intensity of a cat tracking a mouse.

_Poor kid._

The bell rang, and Sherlock pushed through the crowd of students that poured through the suddenly opened doors. John tried to follow, trying to pretend he couldn't hear what all the students were gossiping about. It was what everyone had been saying all day.

"Did you hear about that senior girl?"

"Oh my God, how did you go to class all day and not hear about this?"

"I heard she got raped."

"I heard she was found half dead, bleeding in the hallways."

"I heard the Freak was there."

John was beginning to hate other people.

"You!" Sherlock suddenly declared, grabbing a pathetically small boy by the arm and dragging him to the side. Sherlock was comically taller than the little fifteen year old who was staring up at him with wide, terrified eyes.

"Hi," John said calmly. The boy, Anthony, did not look reassured. John was short, but he was powerfully built, with broad shoulders and strong arms. He was likely as imposing as Sherlock was.

"W-what is it?" Anthony asked. His eyes were a watery blue and his hair was an untamed bush of thick brown hair, the combination, along with his size, making him look even younger than he was.

"Don't be alarmed," Sherlock said, looking slightly entertained by the boy's terror. "We just need to ask you a few questions. I assume that you've heard about the unfortunate Jennifer Tanner, correct?"

Anthony nodded, still terrified.

"Good," Sherlock said. "Now, can you answer this for me? Why was it that the unfortunate Jennifer Tanner was dosed with Xyrem?"

Anthony's eyes went impossibly wider.

"She was?" he asked, his breathing very rapid. "I d-didn't know that. I s-swear that I had nothing to do with it."

"Don't lie," Sherlock said harshly, his entire demeanor instantly changing. He got very close into Anthony's personal space, making the boy back against the wall. Students passing in the hallway slowed and observed, making sure that they weren't about to miss something interesting.

"I'm n-not!" Anthony pleaded, looking utterly terrified. John was beginning to think that it might be best if he stepped in.

"Sherlock," he said, the pitch of his voice indicating a warning. Sherlock didn't pay him any attention.

"If not you, then who? Who knew about your prescription? Did you mention it carelessly, or did you intentionally lead the culprit right to the drug he used? Perhaps you handed him the bottle, you sick, worthless excuse for a human being!"

"I swear I didn't!" Anthony cried, his eyes going bright with tears. "I d-didn't tell anyone! Only my teachers knew why I had it! Please let me go!"

Sherlock backed up immediately, the shift in his behavior nearly tangible. "Oh, calm down. Of course you had nothing to do with it. I honestly doubt you were strong enough to leave a bruise on her. I just needed an honest answer. People are much less likely to protect their friends when they believe their own fate is on the line. Stop hyperventilating, you're making a fool of yourself. Go to the nurse, she'll help you with the panic attack. Yes, go on."

Poor Anthony Blithe ran away.

"I think…" John said after a moment, his tone a firm rebuke, "that you may have scarred that child for life."

"Don't be ridiculous John," Sherlock said, turning away sharply and starting down the hallway, ignoring the wide eyes stares of the shocked bystanders still frozen in place. "He is nearly sixteen years old, I'm sure he'll get over this in a couple months at the most. Besides, the information he gave us was invaluable, provided that Jenny really had been drugged with the Xyrem."

"Because only his teachers knew about it?" John asked, trying to keep up with Sherlock both physically and mentally.

"Precisely, John," Sherlock said, sounding pleased. "Of course, any student who looked into the medicine cabinet and Googled a couple drug names could have seen the potential, but someone with prior knowledge of its existence is much likelier, considering the seemingly spontaneous nature of the crime. I'll look up his records, see every teacher he's had, and try to make whatever connections I can."

"If they have a teacher in common-"

"Prime suspect," Sherlock confirmed. "Although why now, I can't begin to fathom. Predators can be remarkably subtle, blending in with everyone else, but I can't see why this would be the first victim. Every teacher we've had has been here for years. However, there doesn't seem to be any other option, no matter how illogical this solution appears. No, a teacher seems to be the most likely culprit. Of course, we'll need to check alibis and confirm that it was possible, but I believe once we make the connection, the case will be nearly closed." Sherlock frowned at the thought. "Shame, really. I was hoping that this would have been more complicated."

"Maybe next time," John said, shocked that, after a moment's thought, he realized that he sincerely hoped that there would be a next time.

They paused when the entered their dorm hall. Police tape decorated the front of Jenny's room, and officers milled, around, questioning anyone who came within proximity. They had definitely not been there that morning.

"Oh Lord," Sherlock muttered, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders a bit. "It's Detective Inspector Grayson. Just my luck."

John assumed that Sherlock was referring to the portly man with a rather impressive mustache who was ordering the other officers around.

"Don't get on, then?" John asked with a tiny laugh.

"John, by now if you haven't realized how completely unnecessary that question is, I'm afraid that you are much less observant than I have given you credit for. I don't get on with anyone, not really." Sherlock's eyes turned a stormy color. "But you are correct. Grayson and I have a particularly messy history."

"Meaning?" John asked, following Sherlock who had suddenly decided to duck into the crowd of curious students.

"Meaning," Sherlock started with an exasperated sigh, "that he is largely the reason why I have such problems getting work from the police. Ridiculous that he would hold a grudge over something so petty. All I did was offer him some constructive criticism."

John sighed. He had a feeling that constructive criticism from Sherlock would be more than enough fuel for a grudge.

"You made him look like an idiot, didn't you?" John asked.

"Maybe."

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock ducked down even lower as they passed the Detective Inspector.

"And what the hell are you doing here, Holmes?" Grayson had a deep baritone voice that rivaled Sherlock's. Both John and Sherlock froze for a moment, but Sherlock recovered quickly and turned very reluctantly towards the officer.

"I go to school here," Sherlock replied arrogantly. He popped the lapels of the uniform's blue blazer as proof. "I am merely going to my dorm room."

Grayson approached Sherlock with an over the top swagger. The students parted, creating a path that led directly to Sherlock and John.

John shifted uncomfortably, his leg suddenly bothering him again.

Grayson was not a very tall man, he had perhaps an inch on John, and the size of his stomach betrayed that a few too many doughnuts were consumed on the job. His hair was a salt and pepper grey, and his mustache somehow managed to obscure half of his face, leaving only beady dark eyes peering over the bush of facial fur.

"I'm warning you right now, Holmes," Grayson said, undaunted by Sherlock's advantage in height. "If you interfere with this case, you will regret it."

"If I interfere with this case, I will solve it," Sherlock replied, sounded bored with the conversation. John, however, noticed that was not the case. Sherlock's hands were tightened into fists and the muscles in his back were rigid.

"A girl has been seriously hurt," Grayson continued. "You could easily cross the line here, Holmes. You better watch yourself before you make things worse. Besides," Grayson said, stepping back. "You have the makings of a prime suspect. Your past is muddier than anyone else's in this school. If I find out that you did something…"

" _Please,_ Inspector," Sherlock said in a tone that John was beginning to recognize. It was the tone that usually came along when Sherlock was emotionally and mentally shutting himself away. "This was obviously a crime of passion and opportunity, not something coldly calculated. You'd want someone with a nasty temper, not a sociopath, and I'm afraid I don't fit any other profile."

Sherlock straightened his jacket. "I can assure you that I will do nothing to harm the case," Sherlock said, sounding genuine. "I want the rapist in prison as much as you do. Just because I don't care so much about the victim, I certainly care about taking down the culprit. The only interference you will see from me will only serve to assist you. Speaking of which," Sherlock said, turning away, "run plenty of blood tests on her, look specifically for Xyrem. I'm fairly certain that was the drug used in the attack, but a test to confirm it will be nice. And be careful, it will likely show up as GHB, but there are some very subtle differences, so be sure to get an expert on it. I'd offer my own expertise, but I know how you will answer that question. Now, if you don't mind, I have plenty to do. Come along, John," Sherlock ordered, starting down the hallway.

John shrugged at the Inspector and followed. Grayson let them without argument, but watched the pair of them until they climbed the stairs and disappeared.

"Bad luck," Sherlock muttered. "Any other officer would likely see my assistance as nothing more than a precocious child's attempt at receiving attention and praise. They would leave me alone provided I didn't step on their toes. Grayson on the other hand, he's waiting for me to slip up. He would love to see me in prison and out of his way."

"For a seventeen year old," John muttered, "you seem to have a lot of enemies."

"Downside of brilliance, John," Sherlock sighed. "People who don't have it either revere it or abhor it."

They went back to their room and began working separately, John on his homework and Sherlock clicking and clacking away on his computer, when a knock sounded on the door. John sighed for the umpteenth time, wondering if there would ever be a moment to just sit and do normal things, or if this was just going to be the current state of his life.

Sherlock didn't even look up from laptop, so John was left to answer it.

John opened the door and found Mike looking uncomfortable, shifting from foot to foot as he stood there.

"Hey, Mike," John greeted him. "What is it?"

"Mrs. Hudson would like to speak with you two," he said, fidgeting with the hem of his jacket. "Something about scaring an underclassman…"

"You have got to be kidding me!" Sherlock exclaimed from within the room, snapping his laptop shut violently. "He  _tattled_ on us? We didn't even scare him thatbadly!"

"She sent me to tell you that," Mike finished, scooting away as though he was trying to be inconspicuous. "I'll just be going now. I've got a lot of errands to run and all that. Have a great day."

Mike was gone.

"Well," John sighed, stepping out and leaving the door open. "Are you coming, Sherlock?"

"Not much of a choice, is there?" Sherlock muttered, getting off the bed. "I owe Mrs. Hudson a couple of favors. I don't really have the option of ignoring her summons."

"What happened?" John asked, belatedly realizing that he likely wasn't going to get the story. To his surprise, Sherlock answered.

"The school tried to kick me out as soon as I enrolled. She's stood up for me numerous times and prevented my expulsion on more than one occasion. In return, I do what I can for her. Although it frequently means that I have to endure counseling sessions, not something that I particularly enjoy."

John locked the door and they hurried to her office. Sherlock knew its location unerringly, and John, as always, blindly followed.

Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them with a tray of tea and biscuits.

"Sit," she commanded, gesturing to the single chair. Sherlock claimed it without hesitation, leaving John to stand awkwardly next to him. "Sherlock, dear, you need to stop scaring your classmates."

"I was asking him about the case," Sherlock replied, sounding profoundly uninterested. "A girl has been attacked, Mrs. Hudson. I am trying to prevent it from happening again."

"Now, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said in a no-nonsense tone. "I understand you needed to speak with him, but you know as well as I do that there is no need to make others feel inferior to you." Sherlock opened his mouth to argue, but Mrs. Hudson didn't let him. "None of that now! Promise me you won't be cruel to poor Mr. Blithe anymore."

Sherlock muttered something unintelligible that Mrs. Hudson took for assent.

"I mean this, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, her eyes flashing steel again. "And not just Anthony. With everything going on right now, it would be best if you stayed under everyone's radar. We don't want someone accusing you of anything you didn't do again."

"Fine," Sherlock finally groaned.

"And you, John," Mrs. Hudson said, relaxing. "I want you to make sure that Sherlock keeps his word."

"Yes ma'am," John promised.

Mrs. Hudson smiled. She passed each of them a cup of tea. John accepted it gratefully, inhaling the fragrant scent for a moment before taking a sip. An overly sweet after taste made him wrinkle his nose. Sugar. Ugh. He never took sugar in his tea. He feigned a noise of appreciation and set it aside.

"That's a good dear," she said. "I would like to talk to you about the case as well, love. I want to be sure that you aren't putting yourself in any danger."

"Unlikely," Sherlock answered after a sip of tea. "The crime was spur of the moment. I don't believe that the suspect will display chronic tendencies towards violence. Any aggression that will be directed towards me would be raw and unpracticed. That sort of rage is easy to redirect. Besides, I  _am_ stronger than I appear Mrs. Hudson. I'm not who I was a year ago." He gave Mrs. Hudson a tiny smile. "You don't need to worry about me."

"I'm sorry," Mrs. Hudson said, her hands fluttering over the tea tray, straightening things unnecessarily. "You know how I worry, dear. Just don't do anything rash. And don't you  _dare_ confront the man."

"It's going to be fine," Sherlock assured her, real warmth in his voice. He stood up and set his empty cup of tea on the tray. "John already insists that he won't let me do anything stupid alone."

Mrs. Hudson looked at John with approval. "Good boy," she declared. "I'm not going to forbid either of you from getting involved, heaven knows you wouldn't listen, but I am going to forbid either of you from leaving the other alone in a dangerous situation."

"Very good," Sherlock said, straightening his jacket. "Oh, and in the future Mrs. Hudson, John doesn't take sugar in his tea. If you'll excuse me, there's still quite a few things I need to do," Sherlock said, opening the door and heading out.

"Where are you rushing off to?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "You're not to leave school grounds without permission," she added.

"Plenty to see on campus," Sherlock assured her. They left the office, Sherlock rushing back to their dorm.

"Now," Sherlock turned to John, the mad glint back in his eye. "We have a few leads to follow up on. I believe that I will need to look at Jenny's hospital records, and question her myself if I can."

"She will probably be out of the hospital in a few days, if that much," John said thoughtfully. Sherlock nodded in agreement.

"And I've been skimming through Anthony's records. I haven't gotten to all the teachers, but I'm sure something is going to come up. Oh, it's a simple game, but it's the first one I've played in weeks. God, I've needed this. I do  _love_ a good crime."

 


	6. Chapter 6

"Damn it," Sherlock muttered, shutting his laptop. "I can't find a single teacher between the two of them." He frowned, picking at his bed coverings with his fingers. "There must be some other connection. Teachers gossip, that's a fact. Perhaps more people know about Anthony's condition than he realizes."

"It could still be a student," John pointed out, finding that he was favoring the explanation more than the thought of a teacher sadistically attacking a student. "He could have, I don't know, looked up a bit of information on GHB and did a quick raid of the school's medicine cabinet."

"The lock wasn't tampered with," Sherlock muttered. "No one broke in. They either would have had to have a set of keys or the nurse would have had to have been there. Argh, this isn't making sense!"

"Why don't we start from square one," John suggested, trying to mollify his roommate. "Get the Xyrem and the teachers out of your mind and try to figure out who did it the good old fashioned way, yeah? We can…I don't know, interrogate people or something like that."

"You really have absolutely no idea what you're doing, do you?" Sherlock moaned, his head in his hands.

"Not the faintest clue."

"I let the facts speak for themselves, John," Sherlock explained, pulling at his inky black curls. "I don't usually bother with people for anything more than tying up loose ends. In a good case, I don't need to bother with people at all. I can deduce a hundred things about a person from the contents of their coat pockets, but interrogation? Unreliable. People are tricky. They think they're telling the truth, but facts get muddled in those teeny tiny brains of theirs."

"Speaking on behalf of people…" John muttered dryly. "Thanks. Really appreciate the confidence."

"Don't fuss," Sherlock scolded. "You have it easy. At least your mind never manages to scratch itself raw."

"Just focus on what you do know," John sighed, refocusing the subject. "Figure out as much as you can about Jenny. Walk me through her room. What did you see that I missed?"

Sherlock sighed and lied down on his back, closing his eyes and resting his hands on his chest. "She's an athlete," Sherlock muttered. "There were two gym bags and equipment for three separate sports gathered around the room. A football was in the closet, she wouldn't be playing that until spring anyway, as was a school issued bathing suit. She's on the swim team, but again, not in season. There was another bag, a backpack with a stick attached."

"A stick?"

"A club, of some sort. I'm not as familiar with sports as you are, most likely. It was a narrow stick with a sort of…curved head. Like a scythe, but extremely stunted and rounded off."

"A hockey stick, then?" John asked.

"Yes! Wait, no." Sherlock frowned. "Shaped like a hockey stick, but again, smaller, rounder."

"Uh…

"

"Come on, John. It's a girl's sport that involves a mini skirt in the uniform."

"Oh, field hockey," John remembered. "Not the most mainstream of sports, is it? I didn't think the school had a team."

"We don't," Sherlock muttered. "She must play in a community team. That bag was in the corner and splattered with mud. The mud was caked on, but not completely dry. There was a light rain yesterday afternoon, so some time after that she must have done something with her team, practice, a game, something like that."

John took out a spiral notebook and started jotting this down. "Alright," he said, "what else?"

"There were materials scattered all over her desk," Sherlock continued. "School supplies, the standard stuff. Notebooks, pencils, pens, paper, a compass..."

"Just rulers and such, then?"

Sherlock paused. "No," he said at last. "No ruler. Almost every item a student could conceivably need, but no ruler? Why wouldn't she have a straightedge? Is that strange? Is this important?"

"It might be," John replied, honestly having no clue.

"Her dirty clothes were scattered on the floor," Sherlock muttered, ignoring the ruler after all, "but only the clothes she was wearing yesterday. Anything else was in a hamper. Makes sense. She was probably drugged when she got to her room. Assuming that it the drug had begun to poison her system as she staggered in, she would have clumsily changed into her pajamas. Hm, but someone who was fully under the effects would have collapsed in bed fully clothed. She could not have been drugged more than fifteen minutes before if she was in that sort of in-between state. What would that put the time at? The drug was probably in her system for three to four hours by the time she woke up and screamed. That would put the time between ten and eleven o'clock. Curfew is midnight, so any number of students may have seen her stagger in."

"Is that it?" John asked, preparing to shut the notebook.

"Maybe," Sherlock muttered. "There were light scratches of the wood floor. It could have come from absolutely anything, but they  _were_ fresh. Perhaps they warranted closer examination than I gave them."

"We could try to sneak back in…" John suggested before remembering the unhappy officer looking for a reason to humiliate Sherlock. "Ah, never mind."

Sherlock made a small noise of agreement. "D.I. Grey would never allow such a thing. I think we're stuck with the information that we have."

"Why don't I talk to a few people?" John suggested after a moment. "I'll let you know what I come up with and we can see if anything can be pieced together, yeah?" "Acceptable," he muttered, steeple-ing his fingers under his chin. "It would be best if you left for a bit anyway, I need to get to my mind palace, and your presence would detract from that."

"You mind palace?" John asked, amazed that there was yet another undiscovered oddity about his roommate.

"It's a sort of place in my mind where I store memory. I can't expect you to fully understand unless you've had one yourself, and quite honestly I am not sure your mind can take it. So shoo. If you're going to start speaking to people, now would be the time, it's nearly supper."

"I want you to eat something today," John added as he prepared to leave the room. "I get you're working on a case, but it's been three days at least."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise before John decided that now was not the time to have an argument and left the room instead. He promised himself he would be sure to sneak something out of the dining hall later and shove it down Sherlock's throat, if necessary.

He tried to make a mental list of people talk to before he remembered that he was new here and wouldn't know a single person.

"John!" a familiar voice called. He turned around and greeted Molly, whose arms were, yet again, laden with the heavy burden of books.

"Hello," he greeted her politely. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you," she said, tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "I just wanted to ask you if Sherlock would be working this case." She shifted her weight around. "I mean, I'd love to help, if I can."

"Yeah, he's working it," John replied. "I mean, he doesn't seem to be all that receptive of assistance, but I'm sure anything would be useful at this point." An idea dawned on John. Suddenly, Molly's appearance seemed nothing short of miraculous. "Oh! Actually, if you wouldn't mind, I could actually use your help."

"I'll do what I can," she said with a smile.

"I need to talk to some of the people who knew Jenny. We're trying to figure out what she was doing that day, who she talked to, stuff like that."

"Oh," Molly said, understanding immediately. "And you don't know a single person. You'd think that Sherlock would have done this himself. Well, I guess not, actually, come to think of it. He doesn't exactly like people."

"Yeah, I'm figuring that one out," John muttered. "So, what do you say? Partners in crime for a day?"

"Love to. Anything to help Sherlock," Molly said fervently. "I guess we should start with Izzy Sinclair, Jenny's best friend."

"Sounds like a good place to start," John said. "Lead the way. Which hall is she in?"

"Hall C," Molly said, guiding John down the corridor. "Other end of the school. At least we'll pass Hall A and I can set these books down."

John glanced at the stack a little more carefully, curious as to what Molly had been bringing, he assumed, to Sherlock.

"What are you reading, exactly?" he asked, trying and failing to subtly discern titles.

"Anatomy books," Molly said, glancing at the stack. "I was just studying a bit."

"That's...some pretty ambitious reading," John commented, noticing that each volume was immensely thick. "Is it for class, or…?"

"It's just fascinating to me," she said, blushing. "I'd like to work in that field someday, as a doctor or something like that."

"Ah, you and me both, then," John said with a grin. "I could never get my mates at my old schools to understand why I was reading textbooks of about surgery and medicine for fun."

"The fate of a misfit, I suppose," Molly said, something very sad flashing through her eyes. John didn't push it, wondering if, like him and Sherlock, Molly wasn't the best at making friends.

But misfit? John certainly would not have given himself that label unprompted but thinking about it, he supposed that it was true. He jumped from school to school, never carving out a niche, never finding a place where he could confidently feel he belonged. He guessed that was why he was fascinated with Sherlock. Sherlock belonged nowhere, yet walked into a room with every appearance of confidence. He  _owned_ the fact that he didn't belong, and he seemed to revel in it.

It was strange; a foreign way of living that John attempted to reconcile with. He wondered, fleetingly, if he could grow comfortable walking at S

herlock's side.

John and, apparently, Molly were both lost in thought until they arrived at her dorm, where she dropped off her books quickly and rejoined John in the corridor.

"I haven't even been anywhere near Dorm Hall C," John commented, wondering where the school managed to hide all of these extra rooms and wings.

"Sure you have," Molly said. "It's by the science wing. You pass it on your way to biology. Most of the students there hate it because it's right next to the greenhouse. They swear that it's given them a pest problem."

"There's a greenhouse too?" John was completely baffled at this point. "How did I not see any of this? How come I haven't even heard about the greenhouse?"

"Well, we don't really use the greenhouse," she explained. "The door's been stuck since I was in my first year. The bugs seem to find a way in, but unless we break the door down, which the school won't allow, it's useless."

"Well, I've been to my fair share of schools, and I have yet to see an administration that fixes anything. I remember this one time; I went to school whose ceiling had been badly damaged before I even got there. Pieces of the plaster kept falling down and hitting students on the head. I was there eight months and they never bothered to fix it."

They chatted until they arrived at Dorm Hall C. John was surprised by how much he was beginning to like the company of Molly Hooper.

"She's just here," Molly said, indicating to a door that was decorated with several stickers displaying the names 'Izzy' and 'Lily' for everyone to see.

John hesitated before he knocked on the door. He realized belatedly that he had no idea what he would say to these girls. He didn't even know which one Izzy was.

John steeled himself and knocked, trying to remember that he was generally good with people.

After a moment the door opened. A beautiful blonde girl just a few pounds passed curvy opened up the door and looked John up and down speculatively.

"Have we met?" she asked, a strange combination of interest and confusion crossing her face.

"Ah, no," he started awkwardly before Molly saved him.

"Hi, Izzy," she said, smiling brightly. "This is John. He's new this year-"

"John Watson," Izzy said, her expression softening. "Yeah, I've heard about you. You were one of the guys that found Jenny. I heard that you were the first one to try to help her. Thanks."

John flushed. "Oh, erm, well-"

"He's the Freak's new roommate," a separate voice inside of the room called out. A tall, athletic girl with ebony brown hair made an appearance. "He probably just wants to ask a bunch of questions about Jenny."

"Hi, Lily," Molly said, shrinking back a bit.

"And the Freak's pet is here," she muttered, looking Molly up and down with contempt. John took a step in front of Molly, feeling the need to shield the much smaller girl.

"It's fine, Lily," Izzy said, looking slightly exasperated at her roommate's attitude. "If it will help them find out what happened to Jenny, I don't mind answering a couple of questions. Sherlock got me off the vandalism charge last year, remember? He kept me from being suspended."

John decided that he really liked Izzy.

"If you ask me," Lily said, biting her lip. "I think that the Freak probably had something to do with it."

"Hey," John interjected. "There's no need for any finger pointing. We just want to figure out who hurt Jenny. I have to admit that you called me out, I do want to ask Izzy a few questions, but if you're just going to accuse someone who is doing his best to help, I'm sure I can get information somewhere else."

"I'll happily answer questions," Izzy said, stepping fully into the hallway. "Let's go get dinner. We'll talk while we eat."

John thanked her, shot Lily one last glare, and walked down the corridor with Izzy and Molly at either side.

"What's it like?" Izzy asked. "Living with Sherlock?"

"I can't really say yet," John answered honestly. "I don't think that two days is enough time to really make a decision. It's interesting, so far."

"You stand up for him very quickly," Izzy pointed out.

"I noticed that too," Molly agreed. "Usually people are more willing to doubt him than defend him."

John flushed. "I'm just doing what any decent person would do."

"People can't really  _be_ decent around Sherlock," Molly disagreed. "You're either fighting for intellectual footing or cowering in his presence. Either way, it makes people defensive, sometimes violent. I was terrified of Sherlock for months before he asked for my help in an experiment."

"And what's your story?" John asked Izzy.

She shrugged. "Like I said, he kept me from getting suspended. Someone completely trashed the science labs last year. Somehow my name came up, and before I knew it the officials had decided that I was guilty. I still have no idea why that made sense. Then, out of nowhere, Sherlock showed up and said that he would help me. He proved that it couldn't have been me, although we never did find out who trashed the labs."

"So, what?" John started with a laugh. "Is there just a subculture of people that stand by Sherlock when everyone else seems to hate him?"

"Actually the most accurate description I've heard," Izzy said with a smile. "Sherlock does everything he can to keep people away from him, but he also does everything he can to help a stranger. He's funny that way."

…

"I love Jenny, don't get me wrong," Izzy started as they sat down with their meals, "but she wasn't perfect."

Something dark flitted across Izzy's expression so quickly that John was sure he must have imagined it, until his eyes met Molly's. The expression there confirmed that she had seen it too.

"Meaning?" John said, toying with his food.

"She was a flirt," Izzy sighed. "And a tease. She collected guys the same way children collect trading cards: whichever one she didn't have, she wanted."

"What did she do once she had them?" John asked around his food.

"Nothing, really," Izzy said. "Just strung them along. She went out on dates occasionally, but she never committed. She never really saw relationships as something serious, hers or others."

There. The flash of something dark again.

"What happened?" Molly asked shyly.

"I had a boyfriend last year," Izzy said after a small hesitation. "She decided that he was another collectable and pulled him into her chain of men. She didn't think anything of it. She wasn't dating him behind my back or anything; she was just flirting with him. I was so used to how she acted that I didn't notice what was happening until my boyfriend dumped me for her. Imagine how pissed he was when he found out that she wasn't actually into him."

John's heartbeat quickened slightly. This could definitely be something. "What was his name?" he asked.

"Ian Richmond," she said. She froze when she caught the look on John's face. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," John answered hurriedly. "I'm sure it's nothing."

…

"'Hell hath no fury,'" John announced as he opened the door of his room. Sherlock, who was lying on his bed, twitched as John spoke and opened his eyes.

"Excuse me?"

"Ian Richmond," John clarified. "Last year he broke up with his girlfriend to date Jenny, but she shot him down. If you recall-"

"He was there when she was attacked, of course I recall," Sherlock interrupted, sitting up. "Right on the scene. And he accompanied her to the nurse. Strange, I had noticed, of course, but didn't think it was important. I should have realized it implied a relationship. Or lack thereof."

Something else occurred to John. "Didn't you say yesterday that Ian was cheating on his girlfriend?"

"Yes, it was obvious," Sherlock said. "He had two different shades of lipstick smudged in the collar of his shirt in first period. Eight in the morning is a little early to be 'playing the field' as I believe the colloquial term is, so he likely has an established romantic relationship with more than one woman. Although whether he is 'two-timing' them both or cheating on one exclusive partner I'm not sure. I simply made a conjecture yesterday morning, its accuracy has yet to be determined."

"Want to find out if you were right?"

"Always."

…

"You didn't need to make me eat first," Sherlock fussed as they snooped down the hallway. "You've delayed us much longer than you needed to."

"It wouldn't have taken so long," John said through gritted teeth, "if you had just eaten what you were supposed to."

"It was hardly necessary," Sherlock insisted.

"Sherlock, I had to  _literally_ force bread into your mouth. You need to reconsider your dietary habits. Or, if you won't be bothered to get yourself food, let me feed you, at least."

"It's not that I can't be bothered," Sherlock explained for the eighth time. "It's that digestion diverts blood flow from my head to my stomach, discouraging mental stimulation-"

John was still not having it. "Nope, still not listening."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and fixed his eerie sliver gaze onto John. "You are surprisingly infuriating for such a tiny, little person."

"I hate you."

It was slightly too late for John and Sherlock to be wandering the halls without looking suspicious. Lights out wasn't for another two and a half hours, but the day had started coming to a close. Most students were heading back to their dorms or studying in the library. The occasional rare soul passed Sherlock and John in the halls, but they were otherwise alone.

"It's not my fault that Ian wasn't in his room," John said after another moment. Ian's absence was another reason for their delay. They had spent the last half an hour searching for him.

"Perhaps it's better this way," Sherlock mused aloud. "After the ordeal with Anthony Blithe, it's probably best that there isn't any other audience for our interrogations."

"But why is he in the Biology hall?"

"I'm not sure," Sherlock admitted. "But his roommate was adamant on his location. Perhaps he and Mr. Z are discussing the day's lesson."

"Maybe." Something about Ian made John's skin crawl. He was just hoping that they could figure him out quickly and move on. "Do you think he did it?"

"Perhaps, but I can't say for sure," Sherlock said honestly. "I don't have enough to go on yet."

As they approached the science hallway John became aware of a rhythmic banging sound.

"What is that?" John asked, but Sherlock was already running, searching for the source. John sighed and took off after his roommate.

They skidded to a stop in front of Mr. Z's room, where Ian was methodically smacking his fist against the door. They watched him for a moment before Sherlock spoke.

"What are you trying to accomplish?" Sherlock asked in genuine confusion.

Ian jumped, apparently aware for the first time that he wasn't alone.

"It's nothing," Ian said, folding his arms over his chest. "I was just looking for Mr. Z."

"It's late," John pointed out. "He's gone home."

"Thank you, John, for pointing out the obvious," Sherlock muttered drily. "Ian's lying. Why are you really here?"

"I could ask you the same thing," Ian asserted defensively.

"We are looking for you," Sherlock answered flatly. He smiled, but his expression was as far away from friendly as it could possibly be, "Now then, I'm going to ask you a couple of questions, and you are going to answer then quickly and truthfully or else I am going to get very frustrated." Sherlock took a step forward, looming over Ian as he invaded his personal space. "John is new and hasn't heard about all the things I did last year when I was frustrated, but I'm sure that you remember quite vividly what I am capable of."

Ian visibly paled. John wasn't paying attention to that so much as he was wondering what the hell Sherlock had done last year.

"You won't hurt me," Ian muttered, still brazen. Sherlock's face adopted a disturbingly apathetic expression as he grabbed Ian's shoulders and slammed him against the wall.

"Yes, I will," Sherlock said calmly.

John flinched in surprise, the abrupt action setting him on edge. Ian was grimacing in pain as he struggled ineffectually against Sherlock's grip. Sherlock, obviously much stronger than he appeared, merely responded by lifting Ian a few inches off the floor.

"I'm just going to ask a couple of questions," Sherlock repeated in a, frankly, disturbing monotone. "Then we'll figure out how to proceed, depending on whether or not you are honest, of course."

"Get the hell off!" Ian spit.

Sherlock tutted. "Bad start. I hope that you participate better from this point forward. Now, shall we begin?"

John had to admit that he was scared by Sherlock's behavior. It was far from human, and did more to confirm than deny Sally's claim that he was a psychopath. He was doing everything that he could to equate the mercenary-like behavior with the eccentric but mostly harmless person he had slowly begun to grow comfortable with.

"First," Sherlock said, giving another empty smile that didn't even come close to reaching his eyes. "You have a girlfriend? Correct?"

"Yes," Ian gasped. His breath was coming harder now, more desperate as his collar dug into his throat.

"Sherlock," John said, finding his voice. "Loosen up a little. He'll pass out."

Sherlock flicked John a glare, but did as he was told. Ian took in a deep breath and stopped struggling so hard.

"And you're cheating on her," Sherlock continued.

Ian froze, looking up at Sherlock with terrified eyes. "How did you-?"

"So forgive me for treating you harshly, but a serial cheater isn't exactly the most trustworthy of human beings. You are used to taking what you want without regard for moral consequences. Jenny spurned you. It isn't exactly a stretch to assume that you might have just," Sherlock raised his eyebrows and enunciated every word carefully, "taken what you wanted?"

"Of course not," Ian insisted, struggling again.

"But you did try to sleep with Jenny," Sherlock prompted with a grin that looked faintly lethal. He reminded John of a wolf that had just cornered his prey.

Ian looked down, the action a passive confession in itself. "I wasn't the only one," he admitted, sounding ashamed. "Jenny liked the flirt around. And I didn't just want to just-" Ian took a deep breath. "I wanted a relationship with her, but she just wanted to tease. I was stupid enough to think that it meant something else." His eyes were wide, pleading. "I really do like her. A lot. I'd _never_ hurt her."

"Was there anyone who might have?" Sherlock asked. His expression had softened considerably as he absorbed the apparent truth in Ian's voice, but he didn't put the boy down.

"Mr. Z," Ian said with a hard edge to his voice.

John blinked in surprise and felt his pulse quicken in reaction. Were he a cat, his hackles would have been raised. A surprisingly visceral reaction had been provoked at the thought of one his teachers, one he particularly liked, in fact, abusing a student. He wanted to grab Sherlock by the collar, drag them away from Z's classroom and bring him to the safety of their dorm.

"Well, that explains you presence here, but what makes you say that?" Sherlock asked, pushing Ian against the wall tighter.

Ian gasped in pain. "A guess," he admitted. "But a good one, I think. She told me that she was seeing an older man, and I caught her hanging all over Z after school. Point A to point B, it's not all that complicated."

"I suppose not," Sherlock admitted, a storm brewing behind his pale eyes.

The sound of frantic steps down the hallway pulled Sherlock away from Ian faster than if the boy had suddenly turned into a giant spider. Ian fell back to the ground with a relieved and slightly pained grunt.

Sherlock brushed the shoulders of Ian's blazer, quickly smoothing any wrinkles.

A security guard turned the corner, clipping a walkie-talkie to his belt as he came into view. He spotted them in the otherwise empty hallway instantly.

"What the hell are you boys doing here?" He demanded.

They didn't answer immediately. In the moment of silence the guard's face adopted a resigned expression.

"Yeah…you're going to have to come with me," the guard said, shifting from foot to foot. "Unless you have a valid reason for being here, I think you're going to need to see the headmaster."

"What's wrong?" John asked, picking up on the faint note of hysteria in the man's voice. He seemed young, inexperienced. He likely was a student himself only a few years ago.

"Curfew isn't for a while yet," Sherlock muttered. "And lights out is not for hours." He looked up, his eyes a golden green in the muted light. "Something has happened. What? When?"

"No questions," the guard insisted. "You're coming with me now, no arguments."

"But we have a valid reason: Ian forgot his homework in Mr. Z's room." Sherlock lied so smoothly that it sent a shiver down John's spine. He has never seen someone so absolutely apathetic about a lie before. "We were hoping, irrationally, I must admit, that Z was still here, or that the room was otherwise unlocked."

"Yeah," Ian agreed, looking at his feet and rather spoiling the overall effectiveness of the lie. The guard, fortunately, seemed distracted.

"Fine," he sighed. "Not like you could have done it anyway, you're on the other side of the school. I'll just need to take all your names; just in case."

"Done what, precisely?" Sherlock asked after names were given.

The guard looked around and ran his hand through short, ginger hair. "Don't see what the point in keeping a secret is. Another girl has been attacked, but that's all I'll say. Get back to your rooms and for Christ's sake, be careful."

The guard left without bothering to be sure that the boys complied.

"We won't tell your girlfriends about each other if you don't mention anything that happened here tonight," Sherlock offered Ian flatly before leaving.

"Fine," Ian said, although he didn't sound as though he had any strong convictions about his side of the promise.

Sherlock shot Ian one long, last look and, apparently satisfied, turned sharply away and strode down the darkened hall. John followed, his mind buzzing and a small, vague sense of panic beginning to settle over him.

"Ian couldn't have done it," Sherlock muttered. "We were with him. And his roommate had seen him before. The time difference isn't big enough, so we can eliminate another suspect."

"What do you think about Z?" John asked, keeping his mind on the case and trying not to think about the dangerous facet of his personality that Sherlock had shown that night.

Sherlock smiled. "I think that Ian didn't tell us the whole story."

"Why?"

"He was banging on Z's door for who knows how long, John," Sherlock reminded him. "There's more than just suspicion in that action. Besides, there were small scratches around the lock of Z's door. Ian, without any idea what he was doing, tried to pick it. One can logically assume that Ian believed there was something incriminating in Z's room. The damn guard showed up before I could ascertain what it was, and I don't believe that repeated attempt of asking Ian will go well, so we need to figure it out on out own."

John felt a small, terrified thrill at the use of 'we.' Despite everything, he was absurdly pleased to be included in this.

"I hope it isn't Z," John confessed in a tiny, pained voice.

"Why?" Sherlock looked baffled.

"It's horrific," John muttered. "A teacher is someone we trust, someone who is supposed to help us. To abuse that position is such an abominable way-"

"Don't worry John," Sherlock said with the most dangerous expression he had worn the whole night. "I will personally ensure that Z gets everything he deserves for hurting these girls."

 


	7. Chapter 7

There was, of course, utter chaos.

Security was doing everything in their power to usher students back into their rooms, but their success was limited. Sherlock immediately descended into the masses and began asking questions. John could only stand still and stare at the scene in front of him.

They had followed the sounds of hysteria to Dorm Hall A, where a tiny blonde girl was being carried away, blood splattered all over her uniform. She looked much worse than Jenny did, but the two shared the same dazed expression.

"Escalating," Sherlock said, materializing at John's side. "And growing very bold. Anyone could have interrupted."

"Who is she?" John asked as the blonde girl was escorted passed them. She looked delicate, like a china doll, her porcelain skin marred by deep red scratches and lacerations.

"Nicole," Sherlock said with a shrug. "Younger than us. I've never seen her before."

"What do you think?" John asked.

"The rapist has developed a taste for it," Sherlock answered quickly. "As I suspected, Jenny was a fluke, he thought couldn't control himself. Victim number two, Nicole, was planned. Well, more planned than last night's encounter."

"Why do you say that?" If anything, the crime seemed messier than the last. More blood, more potential witnesses.

"Nicole has a roommate," Sherlock said. "One who was with a study group for a large portion of the night. Oh, don't look at me like that John. I  _was_ just asking questions. I'm not psychic."

"So the rapist waited until he knew that Nicole would be alone?"

"Yes. And, as you pointed out, there was more blood. He used more violence this time, but it is still unrefined. He hasn't yet developed his style. I have a feeling that we'll see more victims." Sherlock smiled. "He thinks he's clever, striking again so soon after the last one. He doesn't realize is that all he's done is made my job much easier."

"I'm sorry, did you say his style?" John said, disturbed.

Sherlock merely shrugged. "Yes. Most serial offenders develop a pattern in their crimes as they grow comfortable. Like an artist, each has a distinctive mark or style. What is it?"

John shook his head. "Nothing. Just…nothing. I'm uh… I'm exhausted. I'm heading back to the room."

"Already? But there's so much to-"

"Do it yourself, Sherlock," John sighed. He couldn't explain it exactly, but he suddenly wanted to be as far away from Sherlock Holmes as possible. He supposed that the events of the evening were finally beginning to catch up with him.

He waved goodbye, offered a thin smile, turned and wandered away.

Sherlock watched him walk away, a perplexed frown on his face.

…

John was beginning to confuse Sherlock. Sherlock didn't like it. One moment John is standing at his side, a novelty in itself, the next he's looking at Sherlock the same way that everyone else did.

Sherlock half expected his least favorite word to fall from John's lips.

_Freak._

He supposed that it had something to do with his actions today. Sherlock had to admit that he loosened the leash on his carefully maintained self control. Perhaps it had been too soon. After all, he had to remember that there was so much about himself that John didn't know.

But is seemed so  _sudden_. Out of nowhere, John couldn't get away fast enough.

Well, no. Sherlock had to admit that he had subconsciously observed this coming for the last few hours. John grew tenser each time Sherlock let his façade of humanity slip. His fists balled up, the line of his shoulders grew taught, and a frowned permanently etched itself into his face. Yes, the signs had all been there that John had had enough.

Perhaps Sherlock had put too much trust in John too soon, believing that it was okay for his unexpected companion to see the darker parts of his character.

It was just as well. Sherlock worked much better alone anyway.

The crime scene was a problem. There were already guards waiting outside, keeping it closed for the police. It wouldn't be possible for Sherlock to snoop around. He observed what he could from the hallway instead.

There was a trail of blood from Nicole's door. She had still been bleeding heavily when she was found by her roommate. The rape likely occurred within the hour. The fact that the girl was nearly catatonic meant that the drug was in its peak efficiency.

But how was it administered? Was it more Xyrem, or had something else been employed this time? This rape was obviously premeditated; the roommate's absence had been calculated.

What was her name again?

Ah, yes. Diana. She was part of a study group that met Tuesdays and Thursdays until nine thirty. Today was the first meeting of the term. It was common knowledge on campus that the group existed; in fact, it was the biggest one of its kind. However, the same fact made the membership more obscure. With around one hundred students consistently showing up at some meetings and not others, it is often difficult to determine the members, meaning that someone had to know specifically that Diana was involved, either having been to the meetings themselves or having been well acquainted with Diana.

Sherlock saw her membership the instant he had spoken to her. It was the only credible information provided; the rest was obscured by trauma and the girl's own natural tendency towards exaggeration. John, at the time, had been staring transfixed at the scene of the crime, oblivious to Sherlock's actions.

Would Mr. Z know that Diana was in the group? Hard to tell. Sherlock would have to figure out if she was in one of Z's classes.

"Get back to your dorm, Sherlock," Greg said quietly from behind him. Sherlock turned around, realizing for the first time that the hall had emptied as he stood lost in thought. "The police are on their way. We don't need them making any assumptions."

A wave of genuine gratitude washed over Sherlock. He immediately suppressed it. Disgusting thing, sentiment.

"I'd like to take a look around the room," Sherlock said flatly. Greg was shaking his head before Sherlock even finished speaking.

"Sorry, can't even pretend that I have any authority on the matter." His words, however, didn't match his body language. He leaned in briefly, lowering his voice. "If the headmaster happens to mention some details to me, I'll be sure to pass it on, but I wouldn't count on it."

"Don't bother," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I'll just break in tomorrow."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Greg said, a warning in his eyes. "And you'd do best to pretend you didn't think of it. It's dangerous to be different right now, Sherlock. The school's going to be hysterical. People are going to get paranoid. You are an easy target. Trust me on this: keep your head down."

Sherlock listened to, and then immediately disregarded everything Greg said.

"One thing," he murmured as he prepared to take his leave. Greg gave him a weary look. "I do want to know if street GHB was used, or it was more Xyrem. The distinction is critical. You will be able to tell by the concentrations in the girls' bloodstreams. Nicole's should be staggeringly high. Jenny's comparatively insignificant. If you can get a look at the actual blood tests-"

"Fine," he said, rolling his eyes and gesturing for Sherlock to leave. "But really, cops will be here any second. You need to go."

Sherlock gave Greg a mock salute before turning to leave.

Externally, Sherlock appeared suave, calm. Internally, his mind was threatening to drive itself to madness.

Sherlock was getting very frustrated that he was being left, intentionally or not, in the dark. Sherlock had not been lying to Ian. He got very dangerous when he was frustrated.

…

John punched a pillow until he felt better.

He didn't know what was wrong with himself, honestly. It wasn't as though he had been expected Sherlock to suddenly start acting normal as the time of their acquaintance lengthened. He guessed that he just hadn't expected his personality to take such a…dark turn.

On top of it all, John felt he was being lied to. He didn't know what Sherlock had been like before the last two days. He didn't feel as though it was his right to demand the information, but that didn't stop the insatiable desire to know.

It was like an itch he couldn't scratch, and it was driving him insane.

Part of it was protectiveness. He was, somehow, already fond of the nutter that shared a room with him. He wanted to understand why people were so frightened of him. Maybe then John could more effectively step between Sherlock and the hate that was directed towards him. As it was, his defense had holes. He was defending something that he didn't know how to protect.

The other part was fear. Sherlock obviously wielded deception without any appearance of guilt. For all John knew, he was being manipulated as well. Sherlock didn't have any qualms about stringing Molly along. Was it possible that John was in the same position?

Lastly, it was Sherlock's disturbing callousness. John knew that some of it had to be a show. He had caught enough glimpses of Sherlock smiling, of Sherlock comfortably walking at John's side. He had seen the wild passion in Sherlock's eyes when it came to the case and the genuine rage at whoever was responsible for these attacks. Sherlock sincerely felt that the culprit should be punished. There was real emotion there, but at times it was as though Sherlock was trying to disregard his own feelings the same way he did everyone else's.

"I'd suggest that you get used to it," Sherlock's baritone echoed from the doorway, "but no one else has bothered to. I shouldn't expect anything different from you."

"Yes, you should," John said, rubbing his face with his hands. "I'm your roommate. And I want to be your friend. How did you know what I was thinking, anyway?"

"Your face is remarkably expressive," Sherlock said, shutting the door and crossing the room to lie down on his bed. "And while you attempt to restrain involuntary body language, there are still small tells that reveal your emotions."

"I'm sorry," John said sincerely. "I shouldn't have left."

Sherlock was confused. "Why would you have felt the need to stay, exactly?"

"Because I said that we were in this together, that I wasn't going to let you do anything stupid." John smiled slightly. "I told Mrs. Hudson I'd look after you, and I have no desire to see what breaking a promise made to her looks like."

Sherlock flashed a real smile. "Not pretty, I assure you." He was quiet for a second. "Was it the violence, the threats, or…?"

"What? That made me leave?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, his expression carefully neutral. "I could tell that something was bothering you, something I did, but it could have been any number of things. I was just wondering what set you off."

"It's nothing you did, not really," John said. "I'm just stuck in my own head. I was letting stupid things bother me."

"There is no need to spare my feelings, John," Sherlock sighed. "It's not as though I have many to bruise."

"Okay, fine. That's exactly what bothers me," John finally snapped in exasperation. "It's not what you're saying, or what you're doing, it's pretending to be what everyone thinks you are. You're walking around, acting like a sociopath, when you most definitely are not, and you're intentionally shoving people away. You have absolutely no reason to act that way."

"I have every reason," Sherlock said, the monotone of his voice spoiled by the flash of anger in his eyes. "People hate me, John. And I learned a long time ago that trying to be someone more tolerable for the average person only ends in my rejection." Sherlock's face was turning red, his eyes bright. "I'm  _broken,_  John. I was born broken, so don't bother thinking that you can fix me. It's happened before, and both parties ended up miserable."

"I'm not going to fix you," John sighed. "Because, personally,  _I_ don't think that there is anything to fix, when you're being yourself, that is. I have nothing against you; I have issues with the sociopathic mask you wear."

"Have you ever considered that perhaps it isn't a mask?"

John sighed. This was going to get much worse before it ever got better, and he didn't have the energy for that. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed. "While we're on the subject of things that bother us, I'm not exactly a fan of the way that you retreat. I'm not going to hurt you if you aggravate me; there is not need to be on the defensive." Sherlock hesitated for a second before delivering his final remark, a blow he knew he should have withheld even as it hit home. "I won't hit you because you upset me. I am not your father."

"Stop it," John said, very quietly, his voice revealing the darkness secreted away behind weary sighs and half hearted smiles. " _Do not_  talk about things you pretend to understand. And do not talk about my dad."

There was a tense silence where John was afraid Sherlock was going to refuse to drop the subject.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock finally murmured.

…

The next morning was tense and awkward.

John wanted to apologize, but he didn't know exactly how to begin the conversation, and underneath all that was the fear that Sherlock would just reject anything he had to say.

…

Sherlock felt a little bit like punching himself in the face. John was moping around the dorm room, and Sherlock could practically see the gears of thought whirring around in his head. He hoped, possibly irrationally, that John was trying to find a way to fix the uncomfortable funk that had settled over the room. Sherlock knew that John would have to be the one to do it. He was abysmal with that sort of thing.

But perhaps John was waiting for Sherlock to apologize? Sherlock wasn't sure when the discussion had turned to conflict last night, but he was fairly certain that both of them shared the blame.

Surely John had to realize that Sherlock wouldn't be the one to deal with this sort of thing.

Right?

…

"I'm sorry," both of them said at the same time, causing a silence even more awkward than before.

John watched Sherlock shuffle from foot to foot, looking painfully uncomfortable. The apology sounded as though it was more forced off his lips than easily offered. He realized that Sherlock had absolutely no idea how to finish this awkward but necessary confrontation.

"It's fine," John said. "My fault, anyway."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I suppose I should not have brought up your father."

"I suppose you're right," John said, mimicking Sherlock's tone.

The tense mood, sadly, did not break.

"So…" John said, wondering if a more awkward atmosphere had ever existed before. "What's on the agenda for today?"

"We have to go to Biology," Sherlock said, his tone returning to the formal, businesslike variation that John was familiar with. "We need to be able to observe Z, see if there are any noticeable changes in his behavior."

"I don't think I can do it," John admitted, feeling his skin crawl. "I don't think I can face him, knowing what he did."

"Don't make assumptions, John," Sherlock chided. "He's our prime suspect, but we don't have anything incriminating. We still have nothing to tie him to the Xyrem, nor do we have his alibi."

"Did you find anything to link him to Nicole?"

"She's taking advanced Biology, but with another teacher. His name is Mr. Henderson. I don't believe that you have met him yet."

"No," John confirmed. "I've barely met any teachers."

"Not very popular, from my understanding," Sherlock said, gathering his laptop and his other things together. "Honestly, I'm sure that most students would accuse him as a rapist after being introduced to him. 'Creepy,' I believe, is his epithet. Perhaps I'll take a look at him if Z proves to be innocent."

"Do you think that's likely?"

"No," Sherlock said. "But again, let's not jump to conjecture without the necessary facts. I only want to hand something foolproof to Detective Inspector Grayson. If any other officer was on the case, I'd be feeding him hints and tips. As it is, the only thing Grayson will accept from me is something irrefutable." Sherlock's eyes flashed, his lips twitching with the ghost of a grin. "I must say, I adore the additional challenge."

…

John was wondering what would happened if he just ran across the room and broke all of Mr. Z's stupid teeth.

He thought he would be able to get through the class, but it turned out that he had greatly overestimated his own self restraint. As it was, he was gripping the bottom of his desk so tightly he wouldn't be surprised if the entire thing snapped.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was the picture of relaxation. He was slightly too big for the space afforded by the desks, but he managed to find a way to sprawl in his customary fashion nonetheless.

The only thing that betrayed Sherlock's focus were his eyes, with were narrowed to cat-like slits, watching Z the way predator watches prey.

John had a small satisfaction knowing that the hunter was now being hunted.

"Can anyone tell me," Z was saying, "how to calculate biodiversity in an ecological community? Mr. Watson?"

John froze, realizing that he hadn't been paying attention to a single word said since the first day of school, which was now two classes ago. He had absolutely no idea what was happening.

"Uhh…"

He felt his face turn red as other students slowly turned around to watch him drown in his confusion.

Mr. Z sighed, but smiled at John as though he didn't blame him for not understanding quite yet. It was a hard subject, after all. Endlessly patient, he said, "Don't worry about it, John. I'll explain it."

He turned back to the board and went through the steps of various useless calculations. John slumped back in his seat, his embarrassment quickly turning to hate.

Mr. Z. That bastard.

A piece of paper landed on John's desk. He looked up, and noticed that Sherlock was pointedly  _not_ making eye contact.

He sighed, picked it up, unwrapped it, and read:

_Z takes pleasure in putting students in positions they are uncomfortable with. He only calls on students who are not paying attention, and it isn't to teach them a lesson. He likes to watch people squirm._

John looked up quickly and saw Sherlock watching him carefully. John met his eyes for a second before turning away and giving a nearly invisible nod of his head, showing Sherlock that he understood.

There was potential there. Sure, there was a massive gap between calling a student out on not paying attention and attacking someone, but if Z had sadistic inclinations…

"Do you understand now, Mr. Watson?"

John looked for it carefully, and finally saw what Sherlock had; the slightly feral edge to Z's smile, as though he was baring his teeth instead of flashing a grin.

"Yes, sir," John said, mirroring Z's expression.

Mr. Z's expression faltered slightly, almost microscopically, before he turned around and continued teaching.

John sat back, absurdly pleased.

Z wasn't the only predator in the room.

…

"Are you familiar with graphology?" Sherlock asked sitting next to John at lunch.

John was surprised for a moment, he hadn't seen Sherlock at lunch before, then he cringed internally, knowing that it would be moments before the guys he was sitting with suddenly remembered they had something else to do.

"No," John responded, shoveling food in his mouth. Sherlock picked at his own meal without actually putting anything in his mouth.

"It's the study of handwriting analysis and its relation to psychology, the science behind determining personality through the characteristics of a handwriting sample. It's been controversial for the last century, and considered a pseudoscience by many."

There. Everyone else left. He had Sherlock were now alone at the table. He was just happy that no one had parted with the comment, "Freak."

Sherlock appeared to have paused for some sort of dramatic effect. "And your point is?" John prompted.

"I've been analyzing Z's handwriting," Sherlock said, opening up his laptop and indicating the screen. There was a picture of the white board in Z's classroom up in some extremely complicated looking program.

"When did you even take this picture?"

"Not important," Sherlock said evasively. "The point: he has every single indicator of aggression and violence."

"He has crazy handwriting?"

"If you insist on putting it that simply, yes, he has crazy handwriting," Sherlock confirmed, rolling his eyes.

"Is this real proof?" John asked, a tad skeptically, he had to admit.

"Not at all," Sherlock said sincerely. "It's utterly useless. Didn't you hear me call it a pseudoscience? Phrenology has more merits than this. I was simply bored in my English class and I wanted to clear the table of all those idiots you keep trying to associate with."

"I am trying to make friends," John snapped, attempting to ignore a flash of anger. "You know: branch out, socialize, and interact with a variety of people in my age group? Have you heard of that?"

"Dull," Sherlock said with an air of finality, as though his opinion was the only one that mattered. "Besides, you wouldn't want to be friends with them anyway. "Didn't I already warn you that Trevor has serious anxiety problems? And that Sam comes from a household with a history of domestic abuse? You could do better. You are above these idiots, John."

All the anger suddenly faded away. The words were uttered in a detached monotone, fired off like bullets in Sherlock's usual manner, but from the detective they were the highest praise John had received. He was speechless. Sherlock, on the other hand didn't seem to think anything of it. He was busy on his computer, his fingers flying gracefully over the keys.

"We're going to have a surprise assembly after this," Sherlock announced, his eyes going bright with interest. "Next class we will be filed into the main reception hall shortly after attendance is taken. It's likely going to be a weak explanation of the attacks, and some sort of lecture on proper safety. I wonder what admin's plan of action is? Will they be shutting down the school, increasing security? I can't find any files on the topic, and I've been searching all morning."

"Do you ever do actual school work in school?" John wondered out loud. Sherlock just snorted laughter and went back to typing.

"Um, excuse me?" a small and vaguely familiar voice asked from behind them.

John turned around, looked in confusion for a moment, before he recognized tiny Anthony Blithe from the day before, all wide eyes and puffy hair.

"Oh, yeah. Hey, mate," John said, turning around in his seat to face Anthony. Sherlock looked up from his typing just long enough to flick his gaze over at Anthony and smirk.

"I heard about Nicole," Anthony said, shifting from foot to foot. "She's a friend of mine. I just wanted to…I mean, you don't think that…just…did he use my-"

"Oh, was your medication used?" John asked. Anthony nodded. "Sherlock?"

"I'm expecting a text from Lestrade on that topic…" Sherlock glanced at his watch. "Any second now, actually. Take a seat, Anthony, and I'll be able to inform you the moment I find out." Sherlock offered Anthony a weak smile before going back to his work.

John was stuck by the surprising humanity in the offer. "That's…very kind of you, Sherlock." He smiled at his roommate in approval as Anthony took the seat across from John.

John turned to speak to the boy only to find him fast asleep.

"Wow, I have to admit, I forgot about the narcolepsy," John said, fascinated at the sudden change. "Does he just fall asleep like this all the time?"

"Cataplexy, to be precise, I believe. He's emotionally distraught," Sherlock answered absentmindedly, "and his medication has been stolen. This is likely worse than usual. I would guess that he normally has it under control. He's able to keep his condition relatively secret, after all. I had some associates of mine ask some questions and do some eavesdropping to determine just how many people knew about his condition. Oh, look, he's awake now."

"Sorry," Anthony said, running his hands through his puffy hair. He was bleary eyed and looked a little confused. "That's been happening a lot today."

"It's all fine, mate," John said reassuringly. There was a slightly awkward pause. "Why don't you tell us about Nicole while we wait for the text? Are you sure Lestrade will just text you that information, Sherlock?"

"Lestrade and I have an understanding," Sherlock said simply. "Go on," he said, flicking his silver gaze to Anthony. "Tell us about Nicole. What was she doing yesterday?"

"Homework in the library for a bit," Anthony said. "I was supposed to be with her, but I uh, talked to you guys instead. And then passed out in the hallway for a while, but I caught her just as she was leaving. She said she had to go talk to her teachers. She was going to miss some school next week for her uncle's funeral, and she was trying to organize her make-up work and schedule retakes for any missed assignments. It took her, like, an hour, before she was finished. She came late to band practice."

"She's in a band?" John asked.

Anthony nodded. "Well, I mean, the school's band. She plays the tenor saxophone. The director was upset, since it was the first rehearsal. She didn't tell him that she would be late."

"Was that it?" John asked.

"It was the last I saw her," Anthony said with a shrug. "I'm in the band with her. I play clarinet, so we didn't really talk much during practice. We chatted for a bit afterwards, but she said she had more work to do, and left. The rest of the day…not a word. Not unusual, she's a dedicated student. When she starts working, she doesn't get distracted easily."

"What time did rehearsal end?" John asked, taking out a small notebook that had pretty much become the 'case book' at this point.

"It goes from four to six," he said. "Last year we usually went straight to dinner afterwards, but she had more work to do. She left around…I don't know, six fifteen?"

Sherlock shut his laptop. "It was just after nine thirty when she was discovered. That leaves roughly three and a half hours unaccounted for. She had been dosed, I would estimate, around an hour to two hours before she was found. I believe the attack itself would have occurred within the hour. That leaves a large amount of time where she would have been, I assume, unsupervised. Risky for the attacker, isn't it? Why wait so long? And how exactly did he get into her room? Or Jenny's room, for that matter."

Anthony fell asleep again.

"That must suck so hard," John commented, easing the boy's head down onto the table. He glanced around, noticing that the room was beginning to empty. "Lunch is nearly over…should we…?"

"He'll be awake shortly," Sherlock said, putting his laptop back into its bag. His phone chirped an alert as he spoke. He picked it up, flicked his thumb over the screen to unlock it, and read the message with a frown.

"What is it?" John asked.

"Street GHB," Sherlock sighed, putting the phone away. "The concentration was  _very_ high, nearly an overdose. He would have had to shove most of the bottle of Xyrem down her throat to achieve the same effect. She might have died, had a drop more been in her body. But as I thought, this attack was planned with more than a few hours notice. Although, I would guess that the victim herself was more of a spontaneous decision."

John attempted to nudge Anthony awake. The boy twitched into consciousness after another moment.

"How long was I…?"

"A minute, don't worry," John reassured him. "Sherlock got the text. It's highly unlikely that Xyrem was used."

The phone chirped again. Sherlock read the message with an expression the swiftly morphed into shock.

"What?" Anthony and John asked in unison.

"They found an empty syringe in her room," Sherlock said. "That's how he got so much into her in such a short period of time. But that means…" Sherlock's eyes went wide, the rush of his thoughts nearly visible.

"Tell us what it is," John demanded quietly, after a moment.

"She was dosed in her room. She had to have been. Why else would she have been carrying around the drug? And if it was injected intravenously…oh, it would have worked much,  _much_ faster. She probably didn't even get back into her room until eight thirty at the earliest. The attacker could have held her down, dosed her, and waited moments before she was under the full effects. But how? How did he get into her room? Did she just let him in?"

The bell rang. They were alone but for some of the cleaning staff and a few fellow stragglers.

"Go to class, John," Sherlock ordered. "I won't be attending school for the rest of the day; I need to think. Anthony, I think you will need to refill your prescription, I sincerely doubt the attacker will return the Xyrem to you. In the meantime, try to remain calm."

Sherlock rushed out of the room and John trotted after him. "How would Z have gotten into her room?"

"I don't know! He isn't her teacher, he's never been her teacher, and most girls do not typically let strange men into their dorms. I don't understand this at all. I need to think. Go to class, John. Go to the assembly and tell me everything they say: I need to know what angle the school is taking. It could be that they're going to try to cover it up."

"Would the school really do that?"

Sherlock laughed. It was not a kind sound. "Trust me. Admin is more than willing to turn a blind eye if they are given the proper incentive, no matter the crime." Sherlock rolled his eyes at John's look of horror. "Really, John. If you don't know how corrupted the world is by now, then I'm afraid that I won't be able to help you. Everyone is a criminal, John. The only difference is that some have yet to commit their crimes."

...

"I am sure that all of you have heard about the recent tragedies that have taken place the last two days here at Baker Academy," the headmaster addressed the student body. It took John a few minutes to remember that his name was Professor Garret.

"We are doing everything that we can to ensure that the criminal is caught. In the meantime, we strongly advise you to exercise the proper amount of caution…"

At no point did he name the victims or the crime.

…

A serial rapist.

That's all anyone talked about. An isolated crime was one thing: horrible, yes, but a freak occurrence, nothing more.

But a serial rapist…

Terror mingled with morbid excitement. No one seemed to know exactly how they were supposed to feel, and John had to admit he was in the same boat.

Some of the girls were starting an informal buddy system, just as a way of ensuring that they never went anywhere alone. Others were planning to transfer schools as soon as they could. Most were indifferent, unable to grasp the concept that they were in danger.

John walked through the crowd of students numbly, listening to everything he could discern from the crowds of voices and not really paying much attention to where he was going.

Which was how he bumped into Greg and Sally.

"Oh, hey," Greg said, shaking his hand. "John, was it? Good to see you again. Has Sherlock driven you mad yet?"

"Getting there," John sighed. Greg laughed, thinking that John had been joking.

John wished that he was.

"I'm sure that the Freak thinks he can solve the case better than the police can," Sally said, looking at John through narrowed eyes. "I bet he's already gotten leads the police never would have found. Known things only the rapist would know. Well I think-"

"We all know what you think, Sally," Greg interrupted. His tone suggested that they'd had this argument before. "And I'm telling you, it's ridiculous."

"But is it?" Sally countered. "For Christ's sake, the guy introduces himself to people as a sociopath!"

"You  _can't_ think that Sherlock did this." John was absolutely baffled. "For God's sake, I've been with him the last few days."

"Every second?" Sally asked. "Can you account for his whereabouts at every moment? Do you know where he is now?"

"Well, no," John sputtered. "But-"

"Don't you think it looks a bit suspicious," Sally said, her voice like ice, "that girls are attacked the day after a new guy comes to school and moves in with the sociopath?"

"Sally!" Greg cut her off.

The damage, however, had already been done. John's fists clenched up at his sides. He muttered some strained goodbyes before leaving as soon as possible, pushing through the crowds of students as fast as he could.

Dorm Hall B had never seemed so far away. John opened the door and retreated into the safety of his room, shutting the world out firmly behind him.

"People think I'm the attacker, don't they?" Sherlock asked, not opening his eyes as John entered. He was lying motionless on the bed, his hands clasped over his chest and his body completely straight.

"How did you-"

"Your breathing is accelerated, you are sputtering in the way you do when you're upset, and you slammed the door behind you as you entered. You are angry about something, defensive, most likely, and considering what the topic of conversation on anyone's lips would have been, there are two things that could possible get you to this state of hyper vigilance. One, someone accused you. Two, someone accused me. Considering my history at this school, the second is far more likely."

"Well, you were right."

"Of course. How was the assembly?"

John told him what had been said. Sherlock frowned.

"Bland. How very disappointing. Anything interesting happen?"

"Nothing in particular," John sighed, sitting at his desk. "Did you think of anything?"

"Yes," Sherlock said, finally cracking one eye open. "I need to break into Jenny's dorm room again. And while I'm at it, take a look at Nicole's. Two crime scenes make everything so much easier. I can find patterns between the two. Lovely thing, patterns. They're always so incriminating."

"And how exactly are you going to manage this?"

"Well, I was rather hoping that you would help me."

"Brilliant. Just freaking brilliant."

 


	8. Chapter 8

"We are going to get caught, and when we get caught, we are going to become the number one suspects in this case," John hissed as Sherlock deftly picked the lock to Jenny's room.

"I'm fairly certain that I  _am_  the number one suspect," Sherlock said, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Besides, we need something, just one thing, to tie Z to the crime scene. Then we can go to Grayson with our suspect, and  _then_  we can tie off all the loose ends and serve this case up on a silver platter. But until that point, we need to take a look around the crime scene, regardless of what any potential witnesses think about us."

There was a click and Sherlock opened the door with a smug grin.

"What are you expecting to find?" John asked.

"A syringe, perhaps," Sherlock muttered, "although I suppose 'expect' would be a stretch, in that case. Absolutely anything to indicate that Jenny had been with Z sometime that evening. If we can confirm what Ian said, then the rest of his story holds more water."

John sifted through some of the stuff on Jenny's desk. Sherlock was right; it was absolutely piled with supplies.

"She makes me feel underprepared," John sighed. "But you're right about the lack of ruler."

"I hypothesize that the ruler was the foreign object used in Jenny's attack," Sherlock said as he looked under her bed. "Nothing here."

"I found her planner," John announced with an air of discovery.

Sherlock did not seem impressed. "Read what she was doing on Monday."

"She had a field hockey practice, then a game," John said, reading the only event listed. "It went from seven to eleven."

"She must have been drugged shortly after that," Sherlock sighed. "Factoring in the amount of time it would have taken her to get back to the school, sign in with the night security, and work her way back to her room, she could not have been drugged before eleven fifteen. Any earlier than that and she would have been under the effects of the drug as she signed in. That would have attracted suspicion, to say the least. But then when would she have met with her attacker? It certainly makes things confusing."

"I feel kind of like we're chasing a ghost," John said, putting the planner back where he found it. "So…what? Do we figure out what Z was doing and confirm his alibi?"

"I've been working on that already, John," Sherlock said. "I should be given access to all the security footage in the school and the surrounding CCTV footage later today."

"How-"

"I've explained to you before that I have my associates, John," Sherlock said, opening the closet door and poking his head in again. "Really, you should keep up with these things."

"Of course," John said, rolling his eyes.

"A tease," Sherlock said thoughtfully, moving to the center of the room and looking around.

"I'm sorry?"

"The two people we've interviewed said that Jenny was a tease. I see no evidence of that in the room. The only clothing here is conservative; there is very little makeup to be found anywhere, no hair products…the average girl carries more beauty products in her purse than can be found in this entire room. Why would a girl with the reputation as a flirt not worry about her appearance? Typically girls of that nature and more focused on shallow appearances and relationships than anything with deeper meaning."

"Sherlock," John chided lightly. "You shouldn't trust stereotypes. People are unique."

"False. People are sheep," Sherlock said, dead serious. "They find their niche and they stay there. They conform to the ideas and beliefs that are expected of them in an effort to fit in better. A unique person is rare. Of all the people I've met in the last year, only one of them has managed to consistently surprise me." Sherlock grinned at John, a tiny indication of who he was talking about.

"Me?"

"Of course," Sherlock replied. "Most people would be mortified to room with me. Look at what happened to Sebastian Wilkes. He was my roommate for one month last year before he transferred schools."

"I'm sure that's just a-"

"Correlation? Not causation? I believe that in this situation it would be safe to extrapolate. I have to admit that I was worse last year, but even now I'm not easy to coexist with. Any other person who could have been roomed with me would have thrown a fit. You offered me your phone. It was surprising. You are surprising. And interesting. Why do you think that I've let you tag along so far?"

"'Cause I'm helpful?"

Sherlock snorted genuine laughter. "Keep telling yourself that, John. Back on topic: I think that there's a little more than Jenny than we know. Everything in her room suggests a well adjusted, regulated, confident young woman. Not someone who would attempt to disguise insecurities by dragging around a string of young men."

"Again, Sherlock, you'd be surprised to find what people can hide."

"I think she's hiding something very big," Sherlock said. "Perhaps I'm looking for the wrong things. Maybe if I…oh."

"What?"

"Right here," Sherlock said, kicking away a hooded sweatshirt that had fallen to the floor. "Can't you tell? She's removed and replaced this floorboard. She's hiding something under it." Sherlock popped the floor board out of place and reached down, making a noise of triumph as he pulled out a plastic bag. "Drugs."

"She's a junkie?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I don't believe that she's dependent on drugs, she doesn't have the various characteristics. In fact, I don't think she's ever done drugs once in her life."

"Then what is it?"

"She's holding it for someone. Hiding it on their behalf." He opened the bag. "Cocaine. Very high quality."

"Right," John sighed, not positive if he wanted to know how Sherlock knew that. His eyes narrowed as Sherlock slipped the bag into his pocket and replaced the floorboard.

Sherlock didn't say anything, however, and stood again in the center of the room, turning a full circle before a slow grin spread over his face.

"I've got it. She  _has_ been dating an older man, and has been holding his drugs for him. My guess is that she flirts to disguise the fact that she's in a relationship, not that she's actually been pursuing a string of young men. However, she's overcorrected and gained a reputation as a flirt when her intentions could not, in reality, be more opposite. She genuinely  _doesn't_ care about her appearance because she's in a committed relationship, one that no longer requires her to artificially maintain herself."

"All that from a bag of coke?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, as though it were obvious. "Although I admit that most of it is deduction without fact, I believe that it is entirely accurate. It certainly fills in the gaps, doesn't it?"

"How does it help with the case?"

"Who knows?" Sherlock shrugged. "But little details like this can put a man in prison. Hopefully, it will."

…

"Footage is in," Sherlock announced some time later. He had several screens up on his laptop, most of which were showing the unchanging view of the school's various entrances and exits. "For all thirteen cameras."

"They're numbered to fourteen," John pointed out, leaning over his roommate's shoulder.

"Camera number six is offline," Sherlock explained shortly. "Not that it matters, it isn't a possible entrance."

"Alright."

"Shh, John, I'm observing. Go do your homework."

John did just that, wondering if Sherlock ever bothered to do any of his work. He hadn't seen him so much as open a book this week.

John was struggling over Calculus when Sherlock made a noise of discovery.

"What is it?" John asked, looking up.

"Someone enters the school at nine o'clock, can't see who, and Z leaves a few minutes afterwards. I wonder…did he reenter at any point? I'll need to watch the rest of the footage to be sure."

"Are there any entrances not monitored by cameras?"

"Nothing that would have been unlocked. And BakerAcademy does not give teachers keys to the outside doors, only admin has them. And me, of course. But don't tell Mrs. Hudson that's where her missing set of keys went."

"Don't worry, I won't."

"Good."

John went back to trying to understand his work when Sherlock snapped the laptop shut in frustration.

"You're going to break that."

"Just as well, Mummy promised to upgrade it if it broke. But that's irrelevant. Z doesn't reenter the school at any point during the night."

"Can you really be positive about that?"

"No," Sherlock said, his lower lip jutting out in a pout. "But I only have evidence that supports his innocence. Unless I can actually  _find_ the footage of him reentering the school, it's useless."

There was a soft sound of commotion in the corridor. Sherlock and John's eyes met briefly before they were both rocketing out of the room.

"Jenny's back!" people were whispering.

"Is she coming back to school?"

"She's just packing her stuff."

"Do you think she remembers what happened?"

"I wonder if it was someone who finally got fed up with her attitude."

Sherlock moved through the crowd which, as always, parted for him like the red sea. And John, as always, meekly followed in Sherlock's shadow.

"John, why are you hiding behind me?" Sherlock asked, pausing until John stood at his side. "People are going to think that I've brainwashed you into servitude."

"It's nothing," John said. "Just…listening to what people are saying."

"Pointless, the topic of conversation was obvious after a fraction of a second. At least  _try_ to keep up, John."

John grumbled and they continued down the hallway and descended the staircase side by side.

"It's a good thing we broke in while we did," John muttered.

"Although I imagine that she will be rather distressed to find that her cache is missing," Sherlock smirked. "I'm guessing it's the first thing she went for." He patted his pocket and shot John a look. "I say we give it back to her, in exchange that she answers some questions."

"She's probably answered all of the questions a dozen times, Sherlock," John pointed out, pitying the poor girl. "Fine. But keep in mind that she has just undergone something that we cannot  _begin_ to comprehend. It was an ordeal that  _no one_ should ever have to experience, and she will not appreciate an insensitive smartass who considers her little more than a source of information."

"Well fine then," Sherlock said, throwing up his hands in surrender. " _You_ talk to her, if you can't expect me to be able to handle it."

They were at her door, which was firmly shut against the speculation and the intrusiveness of the student body.

"This is the last thing I want to do," John sighed before knocking on her door.

"Unless it's admin, go away," she called out. "I just want to pack up and go."

"It's Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," Sherlock announced with the same dramatic flair one would have if they had announced the presence of the Queen. "I assure you that we have desire to cause you discomfort, and that we are working in your best interest."

"Go away."

"Plastic baggie under the loose floorboard," Sherlock countered.

There was a brief silence before the door was unlocked and opened. Jenny stepped out, her eyes rimmed red and most of her hair cut short, close cropped like a boy's.

"What do you want?" she demanded flatly, her voice devoid of all emotion.

"Were you aware that anyone had a grudge against you?" Sherlock fired off, ignoring any social niceties. John sighed, so much for letting him handle it.

"No," she answered. "Does someone?"

"Do you believe your boyfriend would have done this to you?"

"I don't care how you know about him," Jenny sighed, sounding unsurprised. "I'm sure the deduction was really impressive, but just do me the favor and don't go telling people. He's a secret, and the police didn't catch on. I'd like to keep it that way."

"Don't worry," Sherlock assured her. "The police never catch on."

"And he wouldn't have hurt me," she insisted. "Why would he need to, honestly? Besides, I hold his…stuff for him; he wouldn't want anything to happen to me."

"That's one way of securing your hold on someone," Sherlock muttered, taking the bag out of his pocket. "Here. I can't hold on to this, although I doubt it would be put to better use in your hands."

She grabbed it quickly and shoved it into her pocket.

"Not one for subtly, are you?" she asked with an amused quirk to the side of her mouth. "Do you want to come in? I've got to pack while I talk. And, honestly, I could use a break from all the pitying looks and the fake smiles."

Sherlock shot John a smug look. John followed Sherlock inside, a defeated slump to his shoulders.

Sherlock glanced around the room, half the stuff packed in boxes, as though he had never been here before.

"Cut the crap," Jenny snapped. "I know you were in here to get the coke, just finish asking me what you have to ask me so I can move on with my life."

"I just wanted to know what you were doing Monday night."

"I don't remember," Jenny sighed. "Most of the day is gone. I remember going to class and not much more after that. I had a game, though. It's where I would have gone. I should have been back here at eleven. Apparently the police said that timeline worked with the amount of the drug still in my system, so…there you go."

"Do you happen to know if they were tracking the pattern of the drug's effectiveness based on Xyrem or GHB?"

"No," Jenny said, looking confused. "I thought they were essentially the same thing."

"Same chemical compounds, but police are used to looking for street GHB, heavily concentrated doses of the drug. Prescription Xyrem can be safely taken. Well, to a point. Some manufacturers have discontinued the drug due to its duel purpose as a sexual assault weapon, but the prescribed doses are, while effective, relatively harmless. More of it would have been put into your system for it to create the same effect as concentrated GHB. I'm not familiar with the drug, but I believe it's a safe assumption that it would have taken more time for it to kick in."

"Have you tried telling them that?"

"Unfortunately, Detective Inspector Grayson is on the case, and he and I are not exactly on the best of terms."

"I remember." Jenny looked up a Sherlock with a quick smile as she dumped all of her schools supplies into a box. She paused. "Where the hell did my ruler go?"

Sherlock and John shared an uncomfortable look.

"So you did have one, then?" John hedged uncertainly.

"Of course."

"Well…" John was still trying to think of a way to phrase it delicately when, of course, Sherlock thoughtlessly and bluntly interjected.

"We believe that your attacker used the ruler in the rape."

"Jesus Christ," Jenny said, stopping everything, sitting down on the ground and putting her head in her hands. "Just… _Jesus._ "

"I'm sorry," John said awkwardly, not sure why he was apologizing, but feeling as though something must be said.

"I don't know why this is freaking me out," she muttered, running her hands over her much shorter hair. "I mean, that would have been the case whether or not I knew about it, right?"

"Did the medical examiner not even notice this?" Sherlock asked, sounding annoyed at the incompetence of medical personnel everywhere.

"I don't know," she answered quietly. "They probably did, I just…I asked them to stop telling me after a point, you know? They started talking to my mom instead. I'm sure this came up. I mean, if you guessed what had happened after glancing at me on Monday, the doctors better have been freaking able to see it after the torturous examination they put me through."

"I'll leave you to your packing," Sherlock said, standing, "but just one more thing to clear everything up."

"What?" she asked, sounding profoundly exhausted.

"Are you overly friendly to hide your boyfriend?"

She blinked, the question obviously having gone in a direction she hadn't been expecting. "Yes," she said, seeming startled by her own honestly. "I mean, I guess. I didn't want anyone to know about David." She rolled her eyes. "I'll admit that he isn't exactly a role model, but he loves me, which is all that I was really looking for. I had the feeling that the other people in my life wouldn't approve."

"I see," Sherlock said. "I thought so." He left the room without warning, leaving John there for a moment for formulate some awkward goodbye.

"And I know it's not my place," he added as he left, "but you should probably talk to Izzy. She thinks you stole her boyfriend."

John shut the door behind him and rubbed his eyes, wondering where Sherlock had wandered off to.

He finally decided just to go back to the room. Sherlock would have to come back at some point. Until then, he had a lot of homework he desperately needed to catch up on.

…

"Nicole's room was empty of anything useful," Sherlock informed John as he rushed back into the room, picking up some vials on his desk and examining the chemical contents critically. "And her roommate kept trying to get me to stay and talk with her about absolutely inane topics. I was rather frustrating."

"She might have a crush on you," John pointed out, returning his attention to his homework.

"You say the most profoundly ridiculous things at times," Sherlock said, looking at John curiously. He went back to examining his experiments. "Has Mrs. Hudson come to talk to you yet?"

"No…should she have?"

"Soon," Sherlock said. "She's going to warn us away from the case. I'm sure that she's heard the rumors by now and has begun to worry unnecessarily."

"Rumors?" John asked the second before it occurred to him. "Ah. I see."

"Yes, it would appear that the portion of students who believe that I am involved with the attacks has grown exponentially in the last few hours. I suggest that you keep an ear out when you go to dinner tonight. I'm sure that you will hear something of interest."

"Aren't you going to dinner?" John asked, anticipating the answer.

Sherlock didn't even dignify the question with one.

…

John had just finished eating when Sherlock accosted him in the middle of the dining hall.

"Mrs. Hudson, as I anticipated, has summoned me. You are coming."

"Why?" John asked, following Sherlock without further hesitation.

"She likes the way you balance me," Sherlock sighed, making a face as though the idea sickened him. "She keeps writing about it in her logs. She thinks that your companionship is an improvement, and I believe that allowing it to continue will lead her to look upon me with more favor and trust in the future. She also might forgive some of the debt I owe her if she thinks that I am recovering."

"What the hell happened to you last year?" John finally asked. Sherlock shot him an amused glance.

"It's a long story, but I suspect you'll find out soon enough. All you have to do is ask someone who was here. You and Molly seem to get along, and she does love to talk about me."

"I want to hear it from you, Sherlock," John said, rolling his eyes. "I won't hear your life story second hand."

"Just as well. Everyone else will probably get it wrong. Unfortunately, it is a story for another time, as we are now here."

They opened the door to find Mrs. Hudson putting on her coat.

"Ah! There you are, dearies. I wanted to speak with you before I went home for the day." She sat back down in her chair and gestured once more at the single chair opposite of her. Sherlock, once again, sprawled in it while John stood silently at his side.

"Sherlock, love, I am  _begging_ you to stay away from this case," Mrs. Hudson said, fidgeting with her scarf. "Some of the students are starting to say these horrible things, and I don't want you to get hurt-"

"Mrs. Hudson, they would be saying it whether or not I was working the case," Sherlock said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "I haven't exactly…done my best to make myself well liked here, and that's how I've always preferred it. I understand that you're upset-"

"I'm scared, Sherlock," she corrected him. Sherlock looked genuinely shocked. "I am scared for you. Someone is going to get into his or her head that you are dangerous and need to be stopped, and I'm afraid that person will try to hurt you. If something happened-" she stopped, pressing her lips together and shaking her head. "Sherlock, dear, if someone hurt you because of this-"

Sherlock sat up straight in the chair and reached over, clasping Mrs. Hudson's hands in his own. "I don't know who put these thoughts in your head," Sherlock said, his voice low, "but I can assure you that they are not worth thinking about. I can take care of myself. Besides," Sherlock said, giving Mrs. Hudson a crooked smile, "John is going to keep his promise. He won't let me get hurt." He leaned in closer, looking Mrs. Hudson in the eyes. "I am going to find the man responsible and make him pay for the things he has done, for the lives he has ruined. Nothing you can say, and nothing anyone else can say, will make me drop this. The police will not act fast enough, and this man will strike again. I fully intend to bring him to justice myself."

Mrs. Hudson kept shaking her head. "I can't let you do this, Sherlock," she insisted.

"Then don't. Forbid me. Say whatever you need to say to alleviate any imaginary guilt you will feel if something happens to me, which nothing will. But know that nothing you will say will change what I am going to do. None of this is on your hands." He released those very hands and stood up, straightening his blazer. "I have a job to do, Mrs. Hudson. If you are scared, then cover your eyes and promise yourself it will all go away. In the meantime, there is a sociopath using my school as a hunting ground." Sherlock raised on eyebrow. "And really, one sociopath is more than enough for any school, and I have no intention of sharing."

"I will keep an eye on him," John promised Mrs. Hudson again. "If he does something reckless I will personally smack him."

"As if I would let you land the blow," Sherlock huffed, turning away and exiting the office. "Laters."

"Sherlock has grown up quite a bit," Mrs. Hudson sighed after he left. "Matured considerably. And he has seemed kinder these last few days." She looked John up and down in appraisal. "You're a nice young man, Mr. Watson," she said, smiling. "And I believe that you will take care of Sherlock, but please," here she looked away, "don't be destroyed by him. Sherlock is a good boy, but he has a tendency to break things without meaning to. If you're not careful, you will get broken too."

"Can't crack what's already been shattered, Mrs. Hudson," John said, a sad smile playing on his lips. "I think that the worst Sherlock can do is step on the pieces."

…

School the next day was physically painful. Literally. People were intentionally bumping into John in the hallways and pushing him aside roughly. Sherlock, when he witnessed it, looked fairly murderous. John had to admit that he felt slightly gratified that Sherlock cared so much about his roommate's wellbeing, but he also had to admit to a small measure of uneasiness when he saw how protective the young detective was becoming.

"This is ridiculous, John," Sherlock finally vented at the end of the school day. "It's obvious that this is a manifestation of some sort of misplaced resentment on myself, and I cannot fathom why these brainless idiots believe that bullying you would be the most effective way of expressing it."

"It's probably something more," John said, sitting wearily on his bed, rubbing his shoulder from a particularly nasty encounter.

"It isn't," Sherlock insisted, climbing on the bed next to John and probing tentatively at the sore area. "Superficial bruising. You'll be alright. These idiots are upset with you for associating with me. I can't begin to understand how their tiny brains work at all, but likely they believe that you are covering for me, providing some sort of alibi while I commit dastardly crimes."

John had to admit that the hypothesis had some basis. The day consisted of absolutely nothing but looks of hatred shot at Sherlock and vile words whispered in ears all over the school.

"I just hope we catch the bastard soon. Then all of this will smooth over," John said, rolling his shoulder experimentally and wincing at the twinge of pain. "How are your leads?"

Sherlock sighed and ran his thin fingers through his hair. "Drying up on Z's end. I got some more footage of the surrounding areas and have been combing through them all day. Nothing that indicates Z returned."

"And other ideas?"

"I'll be looking at the other teachers, Jenny's specifically, as I believe she had the closer connection to the attacker."

"What about the creepy teacher?"

"Hm? Oh, Mr. Henderson. Him as well, for good measure. I don't like him. He tried to blame the vandalism of the science labs on me."

"I heard about that," John said, frowning. For the life of him he couldn't remember where he had heard it.

"Izzy," Sherlock supplied for him. "She ended up taking the fall until I proved her innocence. She couldn't have done it. She had snuck off campus at the time the vandalism occurred. I never did care to figure out who did do it, though."

"Why didn't you?"

"Because Professor Garret, the headmaster, asked me to figure it out for him. He had tried to expel me on an unrelated charge the week before and I wasn't inclined to assist him."

"Are you ever going to tell me what happened last year?"

"Perhaps not. I find your frustration entertaining."

…

John ate supper alone. He had managed to build a shaky acquaintanceship with the lads from his Biology class, but now people were moving when John sat down.

He felt like he was in the middle of a very bad movie, but the ridiculousness of it all didn't make it hurt any less.

He secreted some food away to bring back to Sherlock and returned to the room. John knew something was wrong as soon as he returned and found it empty. He examined the notably Sherlock-less place for a moment, trying to convince himself that his eccentric roommate had simply gone for a quick jaunt down the corridor, or had suddenly decided to conduct several experiments requiring dirt, necessitating the young man's need to acquire samples.

But John's instincts told him something was wrong. Something was off, and he was sure that Sherlock would have been able to locate the problem in precisely point six seven seconds. However, John was not nearly as brilliant and found himself left to his own metal devices.

His eyes swept over the room another time before he saw it.

Sherlock's sleek black cell phone.

John picked it up and checked its charge. Over eighty percent battery left. He couldn't think of any reason why the Sherlock would have just abandoned his phone. In fact, technology seemed to be his favorite companion.

_Oh, phone,_  John thought, admittedly, a bit melodramatically.  _To have seen the things you have seen. Tell me, where has the deranged child gone this time?_

But, alas, phones are inanimate and cannot provide answers. John pocketed the device and started down the corridor, trying to find where Sherlock had gone. He somehow managed to keep himself from panicking and moved silently down the halls, looking for any indication that Sherlock had been there.

He had been looking for quiet a while before he heard the sound of Sherlock yelling.

…

_Some time earlier…_

Sherlock was pulled away from his laptop by a light rapping on the door. He frowned, shutting his computer and sliding it under his pillow. In the event of a search it would be found instantly, but the current contents were nothing that would cause alarm in the event of another drug bust.

He was not looking forward to having to explain the reasons necessitating the search to John.

He checked his messages on his phone quickly, making sure that Mycroft hadn't planned to pay a visit, before tossing the gadget aside and reluctantly pulling the door open.

Of course. Some of John's friends. How painfully dull.

"Trevor and Sam, is it? John is eating supper." The two were above average students, which was a given since they were in advanced Biology with he and John, but they had never come across to Sherlock as particularly bright. Then again, no one ever came across to Sherlock as particularly bright.

"We're here to speak to you," Trevor said, shifting anxiously from foot to foot.

Sherlock knew exactly where this was going. He figured he could probably neutralize both threats now, but it wouldn't exactly help the situation if he beat two students unconscious in the middle of the hallway.

Under normal circumstances he wouldn't care about saving face, but now that people were beginning to lash out at John…

He sighed and followed the boys, knowing that this was not going to end well at all.

…

John found Sherlock slamming Trevor against the wall. Sam was getting to his feet, wiping blood away from his nose, and getting ready to deliver a right hook to the back of Sherlock's head.

John wasn't sure exactly how it happened, but he suddenly found himself slamming his knee into Sam's gut, putting the boy on the ground.

"Good to see you, John," Sherlock said pleasantly, ducking away from Trevor's clumsy swing. He took a step back, seemed to sigh, and then executed a complicated series of martial arts moves that forced Trevor to his knees, submissive before Sherlock.

Sam followed, rather less elegantly, at John's own hand.

"You've fought before," Sherlock commented, wiping some blood off of his knuckles. "I can't say your style is particularly refined, but it is effective."

"Yeah, well," John sighed, nursing his arm as a nasty bruise began to form. "I didn't grow up in the most posh part of the city. And you know how short people make easy targets."

"I can't say that I do."

"I hate you."

…

"What were you yelling about?" John asked Sherlock as they waited in a small reception room for Professor Garret to speak with them about the fight.

"Yelling?" Sherlock thought back for a moment. "Ah, yes. I suppose I did lose my temper."

"And?"

Sherlock sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I have a nasty headache John, must we revisit it at this moment?"

"I'm not going to let you dodge this."

"Fine," Sherlock snapped. Was that John's imagination, or were there two pink spots appearing on Sherlock's cheekbones? He looked away as he answered. "They had accused you and I of committing the crimes…together. I disliked the implication towards your character, especially after you had made overtures toward their friendship earlier this week, and reacted with an admittedly heated defense."

"You were defending me?" John asked, grinning like an idiot.

"Stop."

"Are you saying that you care about me?"

"Stop it now."

"Could the immovable sociopath that is Sherlock Holmes actually feel concern on behalf of another human being?"

"John, if you would like to keep your teeth I suggest that you stop this right now."

"You threaten me because you care."

"Well this is an amusing scene," a distinctly unpleasant voice drawled out form the doorway of the waiting room.

Sherlock's reaction was immediate: he stiffened, his eyes went hard, and his face closed off completely. Gone were the traces of humor, gone was the banter.

"Mycroft," Sherlock addressed the man coldly.

John examined him openly, taking in the brown hair, the tall stature, the stomach that was just beginning to show signs of neglect, the tight but somehow nonchalant grip on an umbrella and a sneer that seemed as though it was perpetually etched onto his face. He looked to be in his thirties, the lines of exhaustion that comes along with adulthood beginning to make their mark.

"Good to see you again, Sherlock," Mycroft said with a tiny, lethal grin. And, God, his voice was smarmy. John shifted, feeling as though his every shortcoming was on display for the world to see. "And what sort of trouble have you gotten yourself into this time?"

"None of your business, Mycroft," Sherlock said, crossing his arms and turning away childishly.

"It's about to be," Mycroft said smugly. "I intercepted the call the headmaster sent Mummy. I'm acting as your guardian for this meeting."

"I figured  _that_ much," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "It doesn't make this any more your business."

Mycroft entered the room and took the seat next to John. He offered his hand, which John shook after an awkwardly noticeable hesitation. Sherlock continued to pout, and stayed turned away from them.

"My name is Mycroft Holmes. It is a pleasure to meet you, John Watson." John didn't feel in the tiniest grain of surprise that this man already knew his name. "I've been meaning to speak with you for some time about my little brother. I thought there were some things that you should know if you're to continue living with him."

"No doubt he wants to pull you away and offer you money to spy on me, John. Mycroft is horrifically nosey." Sherlock glanced back only briefly before turning away again.

"Not what I had in mind, little brother," Mycroft said, the condescension in his voice nearly tangible. "I thought it best to inform Mr. Watson of the dangers that come with living in such close proximity to a recovering-"

"Stop it, Mycroft," Sherlock said firmly.

Mycroft smirked, one eyebrow raised. "Embarrassed, Sherlock? Well, this most certainly is new."

John really wished he was not seated in between two brilliant brothers with an apparent vendetta. He gazed longingly at the chairs on the other side of the small reception area and wondered if there was anyway he could relocate without being rude.

Blessedly, the door to the headmaster's office opened and Professor Garret emerged, looking both irritated and confused at the same time. Sam and Trevor were ushered out, accompanied by their parents, who looked furious that they had been dragged out of their homes at night to be here.

"Go see Nurse Bart, if she's still here," the headmaster instructed them. "I think you, especially, Mr. Prince, might have a bruised rib or two." Sam nodded mutely and followed his parents, who were lecturing him loudly, nearly screaming as they led him out of the room. Sam kept flinching with every raise in pitch, looking as though he expected more bruised ribs coming his way.

As soon as they left the room, Sherlock and Mycroft said in unison, "You shouldn't leave him alone with his parents."

Then Sherlock gave Mycroft a glare so black John believed if any flowers had been caught in the crossfire, they would have wilted.

"Mr. Watson, your parents were unable to come here this evening, so I did my best to explain everything on the phone," Professor Garret said. "They've requested that you call them after we finish speaking. Now," he gestured for the three to follow him.

Sherlock and John were seated in front of the headmaster's desk. Mycroft stood behind Sherlock with one hand on the chair's back. The two, with their twin stern expressions, looked as though they were posing for a portrait.

"I must admit that I am slightly confused," Professor Garret said, easing himself into his big leather chair. "While Mr. Prince and Mr. Thompson both sustained injuries that looked rather severe and you two seemed unharmed, they have admitted to starting the fight with the intention of assaulting Mr. Holmes." There was a small glint in Professor Garret's eyes. "I would say that they were mistaken if they thought you would be an easy target."

"You would be correct," Sherlock said dully, looking, as always, bored.

John wasn't sure, but he could have sworn that he caught a proud look in Mycroft's eye.

"Under normal circumstances," Professor Garret sighed, "I might be able to let Mr. Holmes off on self defense, but his record precedes him.

After all the problems you had last year, I'm afraid we can't let this slide."

"Understandable," Sherlock sighed, although it sounded like it was killing him to admit it.

"And Mr. Watson, this is your first offense. But you've also been enrolled in this academy for only four days. Both boys admitted that you arrived to defend Sherlock, but again, I'm afraid I can't let this slide."

"Yessir," John said quietly, looking down.

"I will speak to the school board," Professor Garret said gently, "but we may have to revoke your scholarship."

John froze, his heart racing. Detention he could deal with. Even suspension he could handle, but having his scholarship revoked? There was no way his family could afford BakerAcademy without it.

"That is ridiculous," Sherlock was insisting rather loudly. "It's an outrage. I am brutally assaulted by my classmates, without reason I might add, and John, a passing bystander, runs to my aid and he has to leave the school? This is an injustice."

"Sherlock, shh," Mycroft said, forcing a rising Sherlock back into his seat. "Don't worry. I will take care of this to the best of my ability. I don't believe you have much to worry about regarding your…pal."

Sherlock still huffed, looking murderous.

John snapped back to his senses somewhere around this point. "Please," he begged, giving the Professor his best blue eyed puppy dog look. "I want to stay here. I  _like_ it here. I don't want to change schools anymore."

It was an obvious manipulation, but an effective one. Professor Garret looked personally pained at the thought of what he had to do.

"I will put in my best word for you, Mr. Watson. Your records show that you are a promising pupil, and BakerAcademy would be happy to have you as a graduate. I'm sure we can resolve most of this as a misunderstanding. After all, you were trying to defend Sherlock…"

Professor Garret grumbled about Sherlock's particular talent for getting into trouble as he organized some papers on his desk.

"I will see to it that Sherlock is reprimanded accordingly at home," Mycroft interrupted, looking as bored as Sherlock typically did. "Perhaps we shall take his computer away."

"Try that and you will regret it," Sherlock said quietly, almost too quiet for John to hear.

Mycroft, however, seemed to understand perfectly, and his expression was one of a child who had been told they could ride any ride they wanted at the carnival. So many entertaining possibilities.

"Come see me after class tomorrow," Professor Garret finally sighed. "I'll have most of this worked out by then. But for now, try not to get into any more fights." His expression seemed to doubt the plausibility of his own command, but he still waved them away.

"That went better than expected," John commented. "My last school would have expelled us both."

"Well, fortunately for Sherlock," Mycroft interrupted, "he has the backing of an influential family name. You, on the other hand, might take some persuading." He looked at John as though he was just one more thing to add on an already lengthy list of things to do. "But I shouldn't worry much if I were you. I will take care of the situation."

"Mycroft runs the country," Sherlock explained to John. "When he isn't using his power to start wars, he's using it to clean up after me." Sherlock gave Mycroft a wide and completely artificial smile. "You really shouldn't do that. You're just enabling me."

"One day I hope that I won't need to," Mycroft sighed. He met John's eyes. "And Mr. Watson, I appreciate you…standing up on my brother's behalf, but I do warn you that he isn't to be entirely trusted."

"Mycroft-" Sherlock started angrily.

"Keep on eye on him," Mycroft finally ordered before turning and walking away.

"You two seem so close," John said drily. Sherlock shot him a distinctly un-amused look.

"Don't you have to call your parents?" Sherlock reminded him maliciously.

John groaned.

 


	9. Chapter 9

The attacker sighed, staring out of a window with a wistful expression. He had been good, so very good, for almost a week now. One boring, miserable week.

It wasn't as though he was addicted to the thrill. Oh no, he would never sink so low as to become dependent on his crime, it was just that he was getting so bored.

The school wasn't helping. Walking through these halls everyday was a special kind of torture. It was like an alcoholic in a liquor store.

Except not, because he wasn't an addict. He was sure that it was possible for a person to enjoy a drink without becoming an alcoholic.

Perhaps a child in a candy shop is a more accurate description. Yes, that was it. He was a child in a candy shop, capable of restraining himself but continually tempted for that taste. And, oh, there were so many candies to choose from.

Nicole had been especially tasty, and she had been the equivalent of an impulse buy. What a surprisingly delightful treat.

But the attacker would never forget Jenny. Jenny had looked at him with big green eyes and tossed her long brown hair over her shoulder enticingly. Jenny had practically begged him for it, but had been unresponsive when he pursued her the traditional way. He had thought she was being coy, but the harder he pressed, the more frightened she seemed to get.

He had no idea that fear could taste so sweet.

He ought to thank her, really. She had opened his eyes and shown him that he had all the candy he could eat, right there at his fingertips.

…

"Perhaps you should sit out from now on."

"Nope, don't even think about it, Sherlock. I'm not letting you run around campus with a psychopath on the loose."

"You could have lost your scholarship, John. I never intended to put you at risk in that way."

"Oh really? Bodily harm you're fine with, but when it comes to my  _education_ …"

"I'm being serious, John."

"So am I, Sherlock. And guess what? I didn't lose my scholarship. I don't know if it was Professor Garret or whatever Mycroft did, but I got off easy. We're okay."

"And what if you aren't as lucky next time?"

"Your concern is touching Sherlock, but you aren't getting rid of me so easily."

"And what if we never find him? It's been over a week already, and we have  _nothing._ All the teachers were clean. On Monday, Z left the school and didn't come back until the next day. Henderson went to dinner with friends, and not a single person remembered seeing Jenny Monday night. Not a single person noticed anything wrong with Nicole. If this goes unsolved much longer, guess who is going to take the blame?"

"The sociopath and his trusty, occasionally limping sidekick?"

"Precisely."

"I'll take my chances. I want to see this son of a bitch behind bars for a long time."

"You and me both, John."

…

The neon flyers were beginning to give John a headache. They plastered every available surface is a spectrum of bright pink, bright yellow, bright green, and bright orange.

_'No means no!'_

_'Remember to use a buddy system!'_

_'Don't accept opened drinks from anyone!'_

_'Keep your guard up ladies!'_

The anti-rape campaign had exploded in full force over the weekend as most of the female student body suddenly decided that they could neon the attacker to death. They were handing out bracelets pledging support for their 'Campus Safety' initiative, which involved psychologically examining every single person attending or affiliated with the school. Girls were being given strobe distress flashlights and high pitched rape whistles along with the warning to use them only when they're needed.

John very seriously asked where his rape whistle was and nearly got smacked in the face.

Sherlock found this slightly entertaining and immensely annoying. Mostly because while the official campaign was running, there was an unofficial campaign with just as much support.

The Let Sherlock Know We Think He Did It Campaign. And Also We Think John Helped.

This pleasant campaign was led by Sally Donovan and opposed by a very small minority of the student body.

This minority included: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Mike Stamford, Izzy Sinclair, Anthony Blithe, Molly Hooper, and Mrs. Hudson as their faculty representative.

Any other members were choosing to remain incognito for the time being, effectively rendering their support useless.

And John was beginning to find this very annoying.

"When are they going to realize that you have an alibi?" John finally asked Sherlock Tuesday morning. "You were playing the violin the first time, I'm sure the whole hall heard you, and you were looking for Ian the second. Some of these people actually physically saw you in a different place while the second rape was happening."

"You should hear some of the conspiracy stories," Sherlock remarked with a smile. "They are absolutely impossible. It's very entertaining to think that these idiots take themselves seriously."

"Entertaining is not the word I was thinking," John muttered, packing his school supplies into his backpack. "And did you hear that Sally has a new best friend? Lily Hernandez, current president of the committee for campus security and the second in command for the We Hate Sherlock army."

"Isabell Sinclair's roommate," Sherlock said thoughtfully, playing with the clasps of his violin case. "I don't remember doing anything in particular to offend her. Donovan hates me because I humiliated her last year. But Lily? No, I don't think I've done much wrong on that end."

"Sometimes people just hate others because they can. They don't need a reason."

"You sound like you speak from experience," Sherlock pointed out, looking concerned. "Do you want to talk about it? I'm not the best at this sort of thing, but I will endeavor to listen."

John smothered a smile as he picked up his bag. "Let's just go to class."

…

"This is just laziness," Sherlock muttered darkly, trying to avoid stepping in the potting soil that perpetually dusted the Science hallway. "Who is using this much soil? And why has no one swept all week? This is inexcusable."

"Calm down, Mr. Fancy Shoes," John sighed. "It's just a little bit of dirt. 'God made dirt and dirt don't hurt,'" he recited in a poor imitation of an American accent.

"Never try to do that again."

"I'm sorry."

"You are not forgiven."

"Hey!" came Molly's ever cheerful voice from the doorway of Z's biology room. "We have a sub today!"

"A sub?" John repeated.

"Yes, John, a sub." Sherlock sighed. "No need to reiterate what has just been established."

"I'm just thinking out loud," John snapped as they slid into their respective desks.

"I hate substitute teachers," Sherlock declared loudly, within the earshot of the aforementioned sub. It was a confused looking young woman who was flipping through a stack of papers, trying to understand the detailed, complicated material she would soon be attempting to teach.

"Try to be nice," John sighed in his friend's direction. "I'm sure you've already deduced where Z has gone."

"Not deduced, read. Professor Garret keeps track of this sort of thing. He keeps a log of teacher absences. Z has a personal matter, a funeral to attend, I believe. He made the arrangements for the substitute a few days ago. And I looked into his credit card activity as well as hacking his computer on Friday. He's bought a plane ticket and booked a hotel. It seems legitimate."

If anyone heard Sherlock's carelessly loud announcement that he had hacked Z's computer, nothing was said. After all, there had been a widely participated in endeavor to ignore Sherlock school wide.

"And she seems more incompetent than usual," Sherlock continued. The sub twitched and bit her lip but didn't say anything.

"Cut it out Sherlock," John warned him. "You aren't in the best position to continue to be an arse to every human being you come across. Remember what we talked about yesterday? This isn't how you make friends."

"I was an arse to  _you_ and now we're friends," Sherlock pointed out.

"A single outlier in an otherwise consistent set of data," John stated, trying to sound intelligent. "Don't try to extrapolate from my single point."

"How's your Statistics class going?" Sherlock asked, sounding faintly amused.

"Very well, thank you."

"Good morning class," the substitute teacher interrupted faintly. "It's good to meet you. I'm Miss Carter. I'll be filling in for Mr. Zach today."

"His name is Mr. Zach?" someone John didn't know interrupted. "That's not that difficult."

John decided to explain the comment to the poor substitute. "On the first day he told us Z was easier to say than his real last name."

Miss Carter looked like she could not physically care less. "Fine. Whatever. Just take out your books and read chapter three. Apparently he wants you to get a jumpstart on the next unit in his absence. I'm taking attendance through the seating chart, so you can get started right away."

John complied, but Sherlock, of course, just persisted in messing around on his laptop. Miss Carter gave him the same steadily patient but still annoyed look that most of Sherlock's teachers gave him.

"Could you please get out your textbook Mr.…" she glanced down at the seating chart. "Mr. Holmes. Please get to work."

"I don't want to," Sherlock asserted absently. "I'm busy."

Miss Carter visibly calmed herself. John felt a stab of pity for her. She was very young, barely older than they were and obviously new to the whole teaching gig.

"Do I need to send you to the headmaster-"

"If Z has not written a note about me specifically, then he isn't doing his job." Sherlock looked up at her with deadened silver-blue eyes. He inclined his head towards Z's desk. "Take a look. I'm sure that something is there."

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Zach may not be here, but I still expect you to treat me with the same respect you've always shown him and-"

"Unfortunately, Miss Carter," John interrupted, "this is slightly more respectful than Sherlock usually is." John was flipping pages in his textbook as he spoke. "I don't want to sound rude, but for your own sake, it might be best for you to just check for a note."

"Yeah, or else Sherlock will rape you too," a girl named Rachel asserted quietly.

"I am not a rapist," Sherlock sighed, shutting his laptop. He went to the desk himself and picked up a post it note. "John was referring to my ability to embarrass Miss Carter in front of the class. Of course, it would be incredibly easy for me to tell you all that she's single, owns nine cats, ate four cups of pudding this morning, and is in love with her best friend's brand new husband, but just so long as she reads this note, I might just keep it to myself." Sherlock made a fake look of surprise, like he didn't meant to just list everything he did. "Oops."

Miss Carter looked like she was about to cry. Sherlock calmly handed her the post it note, but she didn't take it. Sherlock sighed and read it himself.

"'Please just ignore Sherlock. He's a prat, but he's also the head of the class by a significant margin. He's cruel when he's irritated. From, Mr. Z.' See? It all works out in the end." Sherlock stuck the note to the wall and went back to his desk, settling himself back in and opening up his computer like nothing happened.

There was a horrible moment of silence before John finally snapped, "Sherlock, what did we  _just_  finish talking about?"

"I'm not looking to make friends," Sherlock said in quiet disgust, as though the idea physically repelled him. "I'm looking to find a rapist. If you don't mind, I have a lot of variables to calculate. Please be quiet."

_And this,_ John thought sadly,  _is my only friend in the world._

_..._

_"_ Do you do this sort of thing intentionally, or is just part if your personality?"

"What do you think, John?"

"Most of the time I think you're a soulless son of a bitch, but you seem to revel in alternately proving me wrong, then proving me right. I don't think you realize just how bad that was."

Sherlock looked offended. "Just eat your chicken."

Lunch was becoming quite the adventure. Sherlock had taken to sitting with John after a few students had harassed the smaller of the two, and a predatory gleam lit his eye whenever it appeared that someone felt the inclination to cause trouble.

Even now Sherlock shot a glare at any passerby he deemed suspicious.

"I can take care of myself, I hope you realize. I'm shorter than you, but I'm considerably stockier." If anything, Sherlock was making the situation worse. No one had tried to physically confront either of them since the debacle with Trevor and Sam, but the glares only intensified when the two of them were together.

"I know you can," Sherlock said shortly. "That doesn't mean that I like to leave you at their mercy. They are cruel, stupid things, these children. I don't like leave you in their clutches under normal circumstances."

"How sweet," John said, rolling his eyes. "You make me sound like a baby bird."

"Shh, John. I'm thinking."

And so John spent his lunch periods in relative silence, broken only when Sherlock decided to begin talking to no one in particular.

_All I wanted,_  John thought miserably,  _was a nice, quiet year before university. That's all._

"Heard anything?" the tiny and increasingly familiar voice of Anthony Blithe asked.

He was standing behind John, looking down with his wide blue eyes.

"Hit a bit of a block in the investigation," John regretted to inform him. "That information has been inconsistent, and the lack of witnesses is astonishing."

"If only they had died," Sherlock sighed, as though the girls' survival was an enormous inconvenience. "Then I could at least examine that bodies for evidence, perhaps run some tests."

"Sherlock!" John looked at Anthony quickly, gauging his reaction. The boy, thankfully, did not seem horrified by Sherlock's callousness.

"Well, it would have sped up the investigation," Sherlock snapped, unrepentant.

John rubbed his eyes in weariness. Such comments had grown exponentially by the end of the weekend. The lack of information was driving Sherlock mad. The more time that passed, the less likely it was for them to catch the man responsible.

"We'll let you know if we find anything," John assured tiny Anthony Blithe. "How is Nicole doing?"

Anthony wilted. "She won't be coming back to school. She says that she's too scared of coming back until someone catches him."

"I understand," John grimaced. "I'd feel the same way in her position."

…

The attacker was on the hunt. He stood outside the school gates with a small smile on his face, wondering who would next be honored by his attentions.

That's how he saw it. An honor. After all, with all the beautiful young women in the world, he chose her. He wanted her. He understood that they didn't see it the same way, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He knew that they were scared, that they were in pain, but that's what made it…

Delicious.

The attacker sighed, waiting for some sign, some glimpse of long hair or of a plaid skirt, some signal that it was time for him to act again.

A flash of bright color caught his eye. It was one of those obnoxious flyers the academy do-gooders thought were making a difference. It had gotten out of the school somehow, dropped by a student or dragged out attached to someone's shoe. He picked up the electric pink abomination and prepared to crumple it up in disgust.

He froze, looking at it closer.

_Of course._

The attacker thought he was brilliant. He wanted to send these campus vigilantes a message. He wanted them to know just how useless his efforts were.

And he knew exactly how to do it.

…

Sherlock was fiddling with his chemistry set without really doing anything when John threw the door open, rushed in, slammed the door shut behind him, locked it, and leaned against it heavily, panting as he did so.

Sherlock watched the series of actions numbly, barely giving any thought to it.

"You might want to hide," John finally said. "The We Hate Sherlock Club is out for blood."

"Boring," Sherlock said, going back to staring at his beakers. "What are they going to do to me? If they hurt me I can get them suspended and if they insult me I can tell reveal their darkest secrets. Honestly, why do people think that they can mess with me?"

John's lips twitched, but he didn't give in to his smile. "Well, like you said, people are stupid."

There was a knock on the door that had John jumping straight up into the air. Well, less of a knock and more of a thunderous pounding. Sherlock supposed that it made these insipid morons think they sounded tough and intimidating.

"Yes?" John called out hesitantly.

"We want to speak with Sherlock Holmes!"

"Why do you people think that your reasoning is based in logic!?" Sherlock finally exploded. "I was physically incapable of committing these crimes, so why are you so fixated on me when there is a sociopath using this school as a hunting ground for his own sick fantasies?"

"We know you know something!" Sally Donovan's voice permeated the solid wood of the door with surprising effectiveness.

"I know a lot of things," Sherlock responded, getting up and moving closer to the door. John moved out of the way and Sherlock put his weight of the wood, lowering his voice to a much quieter, and much more dangerous sounding level. "But I not know who hurt Jenny and Nicole. I know that you want to have somebody to blame, but pointing a finger at me with only serve to cloud your judgment. And, in all honesty," here Sherlock opened the door and looked Donovan in the eyes, "I probably could have had them in my bed with a few properly chosen words. I wouldn't need force." Donovan wasn't the only young woman standing in the hallway. Sherlock vaguely recognized Lily Hernandez, but was unable to pin a name to any other face. Not that they mattered. Sherlock fixed the full force of his silver gaze on Donovan.

Donovan flushed, but more in fury than anything else. "You think you're so special, don't you, you perverted narcissist?"

"Narcissist?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow and pretended to contemplate the term. "I suppose you're correct. Excellent diagnosis. Perverted? Incorrect assessment. If I was perverted, I believe I would have taken you up on the proposition you gave me last year."

This time Donovan's flush was pure embarrassment. The other girls looked at each other in confusion. Sherlock lowered his voice and leaned in further.

"If I recall correctly, you told me that you wouldn't tell anyone you caught me shooting cocaine if I became your little boyfriend and slave." Sherlock smiled, fondly recalling the memory, wondering, not for the first time, how bright eyes and high cheekbones managed to turn people into simpering sops of desire and incoherency. "You know what, Sally? I'll say to you right now what I said to you then." He leaned closer until his lips were at her ear. She appeared frozen in place, a blessing considering that Sherlock had expected a slap in the face.

He let each word fall like heavy raindrops striking dry ground.

"You. Repel. Me."

He leaned away and gave the girls an empty smile, what John had taken to calling his 'mask.' Donovan was on the verge of tears, and Lily looked homicidal, but Sherlock could not bring himself to care. He was more aware of John standing behind the door, disapproval radiating from every pore on his body.

"Have a nice day," Sherlock said, slamming the door shut.

"You are the actually the worst person to have ever existed," John spat, looking furious. "How could you humiliate her that way?"

"She started it," Sherlock said, admittedly a bit petulantly. He collapsed on John's bed, its proximity making it ideal for him to just fall back and stare at the ceiling without actually having to do any of that pesky 'walking' business.

"And did I hear you say you shot up cocaine?" John demanded, pushing Sherlock off the bed. Sherlock slid to the floor without protest, catching himself before his head smacked against the ground.

"Yep," Sherlock said, unashamed. "I've had some issues with it in the past."

John rubbed his face. He was looking particularly distraught, although Sherlock was unable to guess why. After all, he hadn't used in months. Mycroft had done nothing but insist that Sherlock get himself clean.

After a long while, John finally spoke. "I guess...I don't know. I mean, I sort of guessed that drugs were involved. I just never thought… I mean, I didn't realize that…" John exhaled and attempted to pull himself together. "I don't know, you just didn't exactly strike me as a junkie."

"I wasn't your common street corner user," Sherlock huffed. "And I was never a  _junkie._ I used because I wanted to, not because I was physically dependent. I didn't smoke anything I got my hands on, and I didn't inject anything that promised a high."

Sherlock stood up and rolled his left sleeve back, showing John the barely visible scar from the first time he used it and completely screwed it up, stabbing the needle in multiple times and pushing it through the entire vein, leaving the inside of his elbow a bleeding, bruising mess.

The scar was a tiny prick of white a shade lighter than the rest of his skin. Invisible unless held under light and pointed out.

"Class A narcotics only," Sherlock explained robotically. "The highest quality, the purest that I could get. Cocaine. A seven percent solution, always injected, always in my left arm. I didn't overdose, I didn't overuse, just what I needed when I needed it. I was addicted, true, but my body didn't fall apart in its absence. I craved it, I didn't depend on it, understand the difference?"

"I guess," John said, but the expression of disgust didn't leave his face.

Sherlock pulled his sleeve back in place, smoothing out any wrinkles as he controlled the expression on his face. He knew that John would never understand. He knew that there would be rejection. Anything less was wishful thinking.

He had resigned himself to John giving him the cold shoulder, which was why he was shocked to his core when he suddenly felt himself being pulled into the tightest hug Sherlock could ever remember receiving.

"Don't you dare do that to yourself again, do you hear me?" John's voice was shaking, but firm. "The next time you feel the urge, come get me and I'll...I'll…"

Sherlock pulled away and regarded John with confusion. "You'll do what?"

"I don't know," John said helplessly. "I'll commit a triple homicide just to give you something to do."

Sherlock smiled slowly, deciding not to fight the expression.

"But seriously," John said, his expression turning from sad to furious as he smacked Sherlock in the arm.

"Ow!" Sherlock protested, moving back.

"I swear to God, Sherlock. If I find drugs, if I find any paraphernalia, if I find out that you didn't give Jenny all the coke back, I will not forgive you. You need to promise me that you won't do this shit again."

"Language," Sherlock rebuked him, rubbing the sore spot on his arm. "Fine. Whatever. I promise. You're only the ninth person I've made that promise to."

"Yeah, well, with me you better keep it. I swear to God Sherlock, I will not tolerate living with an addict."

Sherlock swallowed his irritation and went back to his chemistry set. He picked up a test tube and stared at its contents, unable to remember if it contained energy drink or something more dangerous.

He thought about his often made and broken promise and wondered if, for the first time, he actually intended to keep it.

…

The attacker had everything laid out before him. It was beautiful. The clear drug, the clean syringes, the gloves, the mask, the condom, the knife, and lastly, a shot of amber whisky to take the edge off his nerves.

Tonight was the night. Tonight  _had_ to be the night. He didn't think that he could wait any longer. The desire, no, the  _need_  was pounding inside of his head, making his skin crawl like an itch that was impossible to scratch.

He half heartedly tried to convince himself that this would be the last time, that just once more would get it out of his system and he could move on with his life, get back into his routine before he got caught.

But who was he kidding? Nothing compared to this. This was his drug.

In the end, he supposed, he  _was_  just another addict.

 


	10. Chapter 10

"Sherlock, I have a bad feeling."

"You're going to need to be more specific than that, John. 'Bad' has to be one of the vaguest modifiers in the English language."

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock knew exactly what he meant; he was just being a prick. "Fine. I feel apprehensive and anxious, with a foreboding sense of impending doom." John pulled out his phone to check the time. "The last attack was one week, two hours, and thirty minutes ago. He's broken his pattern."

"Two incidences are not enough to form a pattern, John," Sherlock sighed. "Two is a coincidence, three is a pattern, four is a routine, five is inevitability." He got up to begin pacing. "Or at least, that's how I prefer to view it. Although, nothing is inevitable, not really. It's possible that the attacker chose a new hunting ground. Or that he has more self control than I could have expected."

"I'm just saying," John said patiently, "is that something feels wrong. That's all."

"Instinct is hardly credible source material."

"I don't run on facts," John said, rolling his eyes. "I am a mere mortal, and I have a tendency to listen to my gut feelings. Just to be on the safe side."

"As though you are in any danger," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes right back at John. "You're fine, just go to sleep."

John shook his head. "I can't. And curfew isn't for another half an hour. I'll take a walk, clear my head."

Sherlock made a noise of acknowledgment but went back to his computer. John put on slippers and a sweatshirt, not caring that he would be walking around in plaid pajama pants and a ratty old hoodie that had its fair share of holes.

There were still a few students milling about, most of them coming from the showers and heading back to their rooms, pajama clad and hair damp. Other than those last stragglers, John was alone, and he reveled in the brief solitude. He could pretend, if just for a moment, that he was a normal person having a normal year of school. There was no crime, no misery, no suspicion, no prejudice, and no clinically insane roommates experimenting on dead rats. All was right with the world.

Until heard a voice he had learned to hate.

"I told you these had to be printed on bright paper! We want them to be noticeable, don't we?"

Lily. John immediately backed off and began heading in the direction he had come from. Unfortunately, the approaching footsteps meant that Lily was headed in that same direction. John fought the urge to run away, knowing that would only make the situation worse. A confrontation was likely unavoidable.

"Oy! John Watson!"

John turned around and saw Lily standing belligerently with a stack of white paper, flanked by some of her followers.

"Hello," John said, pleasantly enough. "Could I help you with something?"

"What's the Freak up to?"

" _Sherlock_  is in our room, running some experiments."

"Is it safe to leave him alone?"

John threw his hands up. "Always the possibility he could blow stuff up, but I think that's my biggest concern. I don't understand why you think there could be something more."

"Sherlock Holmes is dangerous," Lily said, rolling her eyes as though it were obvious. "Everyone has been waiting for him to snap."

"Yeah, well, that day may yet come, but it hasn't happened yet. You know how I know that? I was with him during both of the attacks. He couldn't have done it."

Lily hugged the flyers closer to her chest. Her followers were beginning to mutter to each other. John sighed, suddenly more than ready to go to sleep.

"It's just a little weird," Lily said, as John turned away, "that these attacks happen as soon as the Freak gets a new roommate."

"Now what are you implying?" John demanded, falling for the obvious bait.

"That you, John Watson, are not the most reliable source for an alibi. You could have easily had something to do with it."

"I'm going to bed," John said, turning around again. "I've had enough of this crap for the day."

"We're going to catch him soon enough!" Lily called as John turned the corner. He returned to the room with a defeated sigh, sinking down onto his bed and wondering how all of this had happened.

"Have a run in with our classmates?" Sherlock asked, looking up from tuning his violin. John just grunted. Sherlock grinned and picked up his rosin and bow.

"Why are people so stupid?" John finally asked.

Sherlock smiled. "Welcome to my existence."

…

John overslept. Perhaps it wouldn't have looked so bad if he had gotten up on time, but, unfortunately, he had slept in too late.

He had missed the big commotion.

He had been  _conspicuously_  absent.

As was Sherlock, who had uncharacteristically fallen asleep at his desk, sheer exhaustion overtaking him after a week with very little sleep.

They were woken only by a pounding at their door. John startled awake first, groggily checking the time, cursing loudly, and getting up to open the door, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. Sherlock, meanwhile, was slowly resurfacing into consciousness.

Greg was at the door, looking exhausted and distraught.

"What's wrong?" John slurred, still fuzzy from sleep.

"Christ, are you two just waking up?" Greg demanded, checking the hallway for passerby before shutting himself in the room. Sherlock sat up in his desk, rubbing his neck and looking mortified to be caught doing something as mundane as sleeping.

"Oh, bloody hell," John said, recognizing the familiar distress. "Who? When?"

"Lily Hernandez," Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up in several directions. "She was found in the science wing at about two in the morning. Some security guard was doing a patrol when he saw her. She was half dead, nearly bled out, apparently. It took them a while to clean everything up."

"Oh, Christ," John said, sitting back down in his bed. "Oh, Jesus. Is she alright?"

"She's in the hospital, but it's my understanding she got there in time. And not to be insensitive, but that's not exactly the issue." He gave Sherlock and John a hard look. "She was one of the biggest crusaders against you two. And, you were missing all morning. Whether or not you have alibis, the student body has already made up their mind. They want someone to blame and since you two weren't exactly there to defend yourselves…"

"Oh, hell." John moaned. "Oh, to hell in a riverboat, this is bad."

Sherlock stretched, "I don't suppose that taking a sick day is really an option?"

"Not necessary," Greg said. "The school is on lockdown until the police finish things up. No class. But it would do you a world of good to get out there and save face."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's far too late for that, Lestrade," he sighed, and added sarcastically, "world of good it would have done us anyway."

…

"Jeez, if I had thought that it was bad before…" John said, feeling the heat of a hundred glares on his face.

"I'm fairly certain that any and all plans you had for joining the rugby team have been shot to hell," Sherlock grimaced. "Maybe at Uni?"

John snorted. "If I live long enough to get there. They look ready to burn us at the stake."

It was barely a hyperbole. Sherlock and John had agreed after about forty seconds of walking down the hallways that they would be using a buddy system until the atmosphere lightened some, just for the sake of safety.

"Oh, Lord," Sherlock sighed, the second they passed the threshold of the science wing. "If it isn't my three favorite people in the entire world."

Like a trifecta winning the race of malevolence, Inspector Grayson, Anderson, and Donovan were standing together, Anderson and Donovan evidently relaying all they knew about the victim and likely handing over a few theories on the suspect.

"Ugh, a week without Anderson has been too brief," Sherlock sneered. "I wonder what hole he finally decided to crawl out of."

"I'm within earshot, Freak!" Anderson protested.

"Shut up Anderson, you're making the police officers even stupider." Sherlock adjusted the lapels on his blazer and strolled down the corridor as though he belonged there.

"Back off, Holmes," Grayson sighed, sounding more resigned than belligerent for once. "I really don't need you here."

"I'm running my own investigation," Sherlock explained. "I only require a moment to observe the layout of the crime scene."

"No."

"Jenny Tanner has hired me to look into her case," Sherlock lied smoothly. "I am operating on a professional basis."

"No."

"It would take less than a minute."

"No."

"I just want to see the pooling patterns of the blood. Provided you haven't mopped it all up yet."

"No."

Sherlock clenched his jaw. John recognized the sign of lost temper and decided to step in before they got arrested.

"Please, sir," John said, giving his best impression of a kicked puppy. "You can't be ignorant of what the students are saying. We just want to clear our names. We're being harassed and slandered and no one is doing anything to help us. You can escort us if you would like."

Inspector Grayson looked John up and down. "Do I know you? Who are you?"

"John Watson, sir."

"You're friends with Sherlock?"

"Yes sir."

"Sherlock made a friend?"

"Evidently, sir."

"Huh. Miracles do happen." Inspector Grayson picked at his walrus mustache as he thought. "Alright, but only because I know Sherlock couldn't have done this."

"Will all due respect, sir," Anderson interrupted in his stupid whiny voice, "I think that is a bad idea. Sherlock Holmes is a known psychopath."

"He's a sociopath, lad," Grayson corrected him. "I know. I was the one who had him tested. I had him profiled too, just in case. This doesn't match Sherlock. He wouldn't rape, he'd kill. And he would make it confusing and senseless for the sole purpose of ruining my life. Throw in a homicide and some twisted MO's and I'd be suspicious, but this…" he shook his head. "This is your average sicko. Sherlock would be much worse."

"I'll take that as a compliment," Sherlock said drily. "I just want to see the area. And I promise I'll tell you anything that I notice."

Inspector Grayson gestured for Sherlock to follow, and he took them to the end of the science room, near the useless door to the greenhouse and Mr. Henderson's room.

They had already cleaned up the blood (to Sherlock's immense disappointment) but there were outlines placed with tape indicating where everything had been found and where the pooling had stopped. Grayson commented that they had taken pictures, but when offered Sherlock only spared them a cursory glance.

"What was she wearing?" Sherlock asked.

"Her uniform."

"She never went to bed, then," Sherlock said. "If she had been taken from her room, she would have been in her pajamas. If she had been sneaking out, she likely would have dressed casually."

"Confirms what her roommate said," Grayson commented.

"Izzy said she never came back?" John frowned. "Well, I saw her at around eleven forty five, and she was completely coherent. Still had some friends with her. But I guess she couldn't have been drugged much later than then."

"The blood pooled far," Sherlock commented, running his finger over the tape indicating the edge of the puddle. "Did she suffer multiple lacerations?"

"Nasty slashes on her back and her chest. Didn't cut her open, but they'll leave big scars."

"I'd have to examine the cuts to be sure, but I hypothesize she was left her thirty minutes. But more than that," Sherlock said, straightening up and examining the walls, "she was dumped here. She was raped somewhere else."

"What makes you so sure?" Grayson asked, raising a bushy eyebrow.

"Slashes," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "It's obvious. There would be splatter marks around the halls if this is where he cut her up. She was at least brutalized somewhere else, but it doesn't appear that there were any...disruptions to the pooling while she would out here. Meaning, she was left motionless and unconscious. And I don't know if she was dragged here because the attacker could have used a tarp or-" Sherlock's eyes went wide. "The dirt!"

He immediately looked down and cursed. "Let me guess, your team swept up?"

"Yes."

"Idiot. There was a dusting of potting soil here yesterday. There would have been visible drag marks."

Grayson picked at his mustache.

"I suppose I should thank you for the look around," Sherlock sighed, "but honestly this has been useless. It's only confirmed that the attacker is continuing to escalate. And it leaves more questions. I need to run some tests. I'll see you later."

Sherlock left John staring at a very annoyed Detective Inspector.

"Thank you," John said with a smile. "It was...surprising that you let us back here."

"Yeah, well," Grayson said, deflating a bit. "I hate the little prick, but Sherlock's a lot smarter than I am, and unless we find something soon more and more girls are going to get hurt. Just...don't get into any situations that make me look bad, alright?"

"Alright," John promised, and hurried after Sherlock before anyone could try to lynch the man.

…

Something was wrong.

AGAIN.

"What's happening?" John asked Mrs. Hudson, who was standing outside of their dorm room with her head in her hands.

"I really thought we were passed this," was all she said.

John went in to find Professor Garret, Greg, a few security guards, and Sherlock, the latter of whom was yelling at everyone.

"This is ridiculous! I. Am. Clean. How hard is it for you to understand that simple statement?" Sherlock's face was beginning to turn red.

"What's going on?" John asked, moving to Sherlock's side.

"Drug bust," Greg declared cheerily. John looked at the security personnel, who were rifling through everything.

"We're just looking for anything unusual," Professor Garret said in a way that was probably supposed to be calming. "Just trying to put some minds at ease. I'm sure we won't find anything."

"I tipped him off," Greg said with just as much cheer in his voice.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock demanded.

Greg shrugged. "Because people think that you're a rapist."

"That's not a valid reason!"

"Yes it is," Greg insisted. "If we search your room officially and don't find anything that indicates you're a rapist, we can all go home and tell everyone you're innocent. Also, I'm pissed at you for not answering your phone. I wanted to talk to you about Lily."

"Yes, Lily," Professor Garret sighed. "Apparently one of the last things she remembers is talking to Mr. Watson. This is for his sake as well."

"So you're staging a drug bust to clear us of rape?" John asked, looking for confirmation that he was understanding the ridiculous situation.

"Yes," Greg said. "We need reasonable suspicion to start searching a student's room. And fortunately for us, Sherlock has a record that makes this perfectly ethical. Have you found anything yet?"

"Just some weird chemicals."

"Unless you want to melt your flesh, don't play with any of it," Sherlock added as a guard picked a plastic bottle that John knew contained hydrochloric acid. (He had been given a sort of orientation regarding Sherlock's chemicals in order to ensure he didn't accidentally kill himself.) "Seriously. That's a particularly aggressive dilution. Don't touch."

"Will it really melt me?" the guard asked, examining the bottle.

"Parts of you. It  _could_  just give you severe burns, though."

The guard set it down quickly.

"Are these...human eyes?" another asked.

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "They're goat eyes. Notice the distinctive pupil."

"Do we have guidelines regarding having that sort of thing in the room?" Professor Garret asked Greg.

"I don't think that the rules were made with Sherlock in mind," Greg pointed out.

Professor Garret looked three hundred percent done, but didn't say anything else.

"Are you satisfied?" Sherlock finally asked, when the security guards came up with nothing. "Have you proven your point?"

"Well, since neither drugs, related paraphernalia, or anything that relates you to the attacks has been found, I think we can all go home," Greg said, sounding pleased with himself. "Hey, don't look at me like that, Sherlock. This has cleared your name some; it puts in a good word for you, at least."

"If facts were relevant to the idiots in the student body," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, "then I wouldn't be accused in the first place. All you've done is waste everyone's time."

"I'll explain it to Mrs. Hudson," Professor Garret said as if Sherlock hadn't spoken. "The poor thing is positively panicked."

After a few awkward farewells, the boys were left alone in their room. John leaned up against the wall, too tired to continue to support himself.

"How many times have they had to do that?" John finally asked, after Sherlock had begun reorganizing his chemistry set. "How many times have they searched this place for heroin?"

Sherlock gave one bark of humorless laughter. "Heroin? Don't be ridiculous, John. I'm not an opium addict who hides his drugs in his slipper. It was always cocaine and they never found any. I'm very good at hiding things."

"Do you have any in here?"

"Oh, shut up."

"I mean it, Sherlock," John said, pushing himself off the wall and approaching his roommate. "Is there anything here I need to know about?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. " _Of course not_ , John. I'm clean. Do I look like someone who would lie to save face?"

John bit his lip and cleared his throat, but didn't say anything.

"Furthermore," Sherlock said, finally turning away from his mess, "I think you would notice if I were displaying signs of either using or withdrawal. You aren't unfamiliar with the symptoms of substance abuse."

"No, I'm not," John snapped. "Which is why this bothers me so much! After everything I've been through, after eighteen years of living with people who were destroying themselves with the chemicals of their choice, why would you think for a second that I would be okay living with another  _addict?_ "

Sherlock's expression closed off and he turned away again.

"I'm not going to pretend that I understand everything about you, John," Sherlock finally said, his voice rough. "Even  _I_ don't know everything. But I understand that the people in your life have let you down in the past." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I don't intend to do that to you."

John was shocked into silence, wondering if something so compassionate, something so filled with  _sentiment_ , of all things, had ever passed Sherlock Holmes' lips before.

"Right," John finally said, trying to speak past the lump in his throat. "Right. Good, that. Thank you."

"You're welcome, John."

…

The attacker was, for the first time in a long while, content. He had admired Lily for quite some time, and it was a pleasure to finally see the girl shut up for a few minutes.

And the best part was, everyone seemed to think that Sherlock Holmes was the one responsible. The little fools. Anyone could tell that Sherlock didn't have what it took. He was one of the  _good guys._ In fact, he was probably one of the best men on campus, yet everyone insisted on seeing him as nothing but a villain.

But the attacker knew. He saw the same purity and innocence in Sherlock as he had seen in his other victims. And Sherlock…

Sherlock really did have the most lovely eyes, didn't he? The ivory skin, the inky black hair, those full lips, and those absolutely ridiculous cheekbones. Now that he thought about it, Sherlock Holmes looked simply delicious.

Just like candy.

 


	11. Chapter 11

_Keep your head down and put one foot in front of the other._

If he didn't make eye contact, John could pretend that people weren't looking at him. If he got where he was going as fast as he could, he could pretend that everything was alright.

Class started back up again the day before, and the students had used their day off rather productively. Instead of anger being directed towards Sherlock and John, it was fear.

Pure, unadulterated terror.

_Just keep walking and pretend everything is okay._

It didn't work, but John was getting good at pretending.

…

Sherlock was furious.

_They are idiots. All of them. Their little minds are incapable of fathoming more than their own base emotions. Perhaps if they were to think with anything but their amygdale, they would realize that they are safe from me. Just use logic, morons. You are capable of rational thought. Jesus. Idiots. You were given higher thinking for a reason. USE YOUR FRONTAL LOBE GODAMMIT. I wonder what would happen to a cerebral cortex when exposed to sudden changes in temperature? Perhaps I could...no, not important right now. I have to find a rapist. I have to find someone who is very, very dangerous. Let's review the facts._

Sherlock started skipping school. He rationalized the missed class by convincing himself that he was doing far greater good for both his education and society by shutting himself away and experimenting.

_Lily was small, but still young. It would be logical to estimate that her body holds no more than four liters of blood. Based on the pooling, she would have either bled out over a long period of time, or the slashes she suffered were deeper than indicated. At any rate, there was nearly a liter on the ground, but likely less than 25% of her total amount, meaning that she would survive the loss provided she got help. Which she did. Shame, if I had been able to examine the slashes…_

_Never mind. I was told they needed many stitches, although 'many' is vague. What is with people and these incredibly vague modifiers? Don't they realize that everything of importance is in the details? The photos I stole indicate three slashes, one on her back, two on her chest. Likely happened after the attack, as the sights of the wounds do not indicate excess trauma._

_Attacker escalating._

_Anti-social personality disorder? Possibly. There are two options with this man. Either he doesn't understand the scope of the pain he causes (which would suggest problems with his mirror neuron and inability to register empathy) or he actively enjoys it (which would suggest that I am dealing with a full fledged psychopath)._

_Attack one: Jenny. Rape and attack with foreign object. Attack at approximately ten o'clock to midnight. Xyrem used. Last thing she remembers is going to class._

_Attack two: Nicole. Rape and small lacerations suffered on her face, neck, and rib cage. Attack early, between eight and nine o'clock. Lack of witnesses astounding. GHB traced to street manufacturer. Dealer does not remember customer. Last thing Nicole remembers is going to class._

_Attack three: Lily. Rape and severe lacerations sustained on chest and back. Attacked sometime after eleven forty five. Left to bleed out in science hallway. Moved from initial place of attack, first to be dumped in different location. Actual attack zone not found. Same drug used with Nicole. Lily woke up the day after attack. The last thing she remembers is doing homework._

_One thing in common._

_They need one thing in common._

Sherlock let his mind race, ignoring John as he came into the room with a sigh and sat down at his bed.

_No teachers for all three. Different groups of friends. Different extra curricular activities. Just one class._

_Advanced Biology._

"John," Sherlock said, opening his eyes. "We need to look at the Biology rooms."

…

"I thought you said Z couldn't have done it," John protested when Sherlock started slipping his shoes back on.

"I didn't say that we were going to see Z," Sherlock pointed out. "I said we needed to look at the rooms. The victims had absolutely nothing in common but Advanced Biology. I missed it before because of Nicole, I was looking for a teacher in common, but she's a year below us. She wouldn't be taking Advanced Biology unless she had tested into it. Which," Sherlock said, taking out his laptop, "I believe she did. I will just confirm it in a moment."

"But, Mr. Henderson-"

"Yes, came across as clean. You see, my problem has been, John, that I'm so focused on the teachers. It could be a student. It could be administration. However, I believe that students from the Advanced Biology classes are being used as the pool of potential victims, so I still believe students are less likely. If I can get a look around all the rooms, I can try to figure it out."

"We need to be careful," John said, standing. "People are scared."

"People are always scared," Sherlock scoffed. "Just ignore them. They only need to be afraid of me if they get in my way."

…

The attacker fiddled with a pen as he thought.

_Hm. Sherlock._

_Sherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlock._

He shook his head. That wasn't healthy. He was going to have to deal with this quickly before it became a real problem. He had drawn three pairs of silver cat eyes today, and he knew it would escalate before it got better.

But he was out of the drug. He used the last of the GHB on Lily, and the dealers were being watched by the police. He couldn't get more. He knew, theoretically, he could manufacture it himself, but it would look suspicious, what with the police crawling over every inch of the academy. He didn't know how he was going to go about this. He sighed. He just wouldn't be able to control Sherlock unless he was drugged.

Or…

Well, if he was restrained, well that would work too, right? Just so long as Sherlock didn't see his face, it would be okay. After all, how observant could the boy really be? That little magic trick of his was just an irritation. No one could do what he claimed to do. He was just showing off. Yeah, the attacker would be safe. Just so long as he could keep him held down.

This way, at least, he wouldn't have to wait.

But perhaps he needed to practice once. After all, Sherlock was not something to be wasted. He had to be sure that he did it right.

…

"No more dirt, at least," Sherlock muttered, indicating the science wing, newly swept clean. "Do me a favor; keep track of what class used it in an experiment. I would like to speak with that professor regarding the state of my shoes."

They went to Henderson first.

John didn't like Mr. Henderson. He understood why the other students referred to him as creepy. There was something about him, something just a little off, that made John think that his roommate wasn't the only one who dissected dead things for fun.

He was a tall man, with greasy brown hair and grimy glasses he didn't seem to realize he was allowed to wipe clean. The teacher also had a disgusting habit of picking his teeth with his thumb nail and then sucking the nail clean.

Never before had John felt so blessed to be taught biology by a suspected predator.

To Sherlock's chagrin (he really wanted someone to blame) Mr. Henderson performed not a single experiment requiring potting soil this year, and he too had been wondering about the identity of the culprit.

John slipped away when the two discovered their unexpected camaraderie and proceeded to rant ad infinitum on the topic.

For Sherlock's sake, John checked all the other biology rooms and found not a single dirt related experiment. He checked up on the teachers. Mrs. Stevens was washing her white board while chatting with a student who was sorting papers. Ms. Dent was grading and positively chugging down a cup of coffee. Mr. Z was sitting at his desk, staring at his computer screen and chewing on a pen. No pots or plants to be found anywhere. After he completed his futile search, he sat down in the hallways and contemplated the current state of his life. So caught up was he in this depressing reverie that he didn't see the kick, or even the kicker, coming until it was too late to do much about it.

"Jesus Christ!" John exclaimed as his right shoulder hit the floor. Hard. The cracking sound that came from it sounded horrifically like a gunshot. "Jesus shi-"

Another kicked came in the stomach. John lost all ability to speak as his mind clouded over with pain and lack of oxygen. He felt himself being pulled to his feet just to get punched in the face. He hit the ground again, still ignorant of his attacker's identity. He couldn't focus on much more than the blinding pain in his shoulder that was slowly growing in its intensity.

"Sherlock!" John gasped as he held his wounded shoulder close and tried to gain some traction with his feet and stand up. He caught a glimpse of the offender. John had absolutely no idea who he was. But that didn't matter. His thought process was less focused on identification and more focused on the white rage that clouded his mind.

Disassociating himself from his agony, he drove his good shoulder into the boy and knocked him to the ground.

…

Sherlock recognized the sound of a scuffle the second his sensitive hearing picked it up. He ignored it, however, as he was busy staring at the greenhouse door. It was bothering him. He didn't know why. Too much data, too little data, all of it swirling around his head with such speed and force that nothing could penetrate its vortex.

It wasn't until he heard the muffled plea of "Sherlock!" that the young detective snapped into awareness and rushed down the hallway.

Someone was hurting his John. That simply would not do.

…

"Who is he?" John asked Sherlock shakily, staring at the semi-conscious boy lying on the floor.

"Kevin Little, Lily's ex-boyfriend, if I recall correctly," Sherlock answered, pulling out his handkerchief and using it to dab at the small dabs of blood appearing under John's left eye. "He is wearing a ring. It cut you."

"Bastard." The cuts were much less worrying than John's obviously cracked clavicle, but as there was nothing he could do about that at the moment, Sherlock tried to content himself with fussing at the more minor wounds.

"Hmph," was all Sherlock managed, overcome with the unfamiliar sensation of worry. John was a good man, and a preferable roommate, but more than that, he had become Sherlock's friend, something no else had managed. Sherlock was torn. On the one hand, he wanted to preserve and nurture this tiny, fragile relationship that was precious in its unprecedented nature, and on the other hand, Sherlock wanted to push John far away, out of the line of fire. Sherlock was always going to be hated by his classmates. It didn't seem fair that John would receive that treatment by default.

"Would you two please start acting like you've done something wrong?" Mr. Z asked irritably, crossing his arms. He had pulled Sherlock off the poor boy and was standing guard to make sure everyone faced justice and no one committed homicide (his words, not Sherlock's).

"You aren't exactly helping the child," Sherlock pointed out, not sparing the teacher a glance. Kevin let out a pitiful moan and curled up into a ball. "I believe I may have fractured a rib. Only appropriate, considering he has, apparently, cracked John's collar bone."

"It's not broken," John insisted, although his words were slurred. "It's just a bit beat up."

Sherlock didn't respond. They had this argument the second Sherlock helped John off the floor and the beaten young man had turned grey and sick looking the second he twitched his shoulder. Sherlock had been sure John was going to throw up on him. His worry for his roommate notwithstanding, he couldn't help but feel another flash of concern for his shoes.

"I called security. And the headmaster. And the nurse." Mr. Z sounded so incredibly bored that Sherlock wondered if he had, after all his accusations, actually stumbled across a kindred spirit.

"Speaking of," Sherlock muttered as faint footsteps echoed down the hallway. He recognized the pattern of Mrs. Barts' pace and continued his administrations to John. He had the feeling that the moaning and groaning wimp on the floor would take precedence to the stoic, if agonized, man who was doing a far better job of concealing his far more serious injuries.

"I think you're supposed to take us to the headmaster," John pointed out. "Not just stand here and watch us while we could totally escape." Sherlock was, frankly, amazed that John was able to speak coherently, even if it was through clenched teeth and punctuated with heavy gasps for air.

Sherlock noticed that John was beginning to sweat and he was beginning to shift his weight to his left leg.

"Like you can do more than walk two paces in your condition," Sherlock grumbled, pocketing the handkerchief and very carefully attempting to remove the blazer of John's uniform so he could get a better look at the break.

John hissed and gritted his teeth in pain as the nurse rounded the corner.

"Don't make it worse, you bloody idiot," Nurse Barts snarled. Sherlock sighed. Nurse Barts really hated him.  _Really_ hated him. More than the usual amount. The aging woman was growing increasingly short, round, grey, and bitter. She grew sick of Sherlock the first time someone had dragged him to her, passed out from whatever drug he had fancied that morning. She had recommended his immediate expulsion, but Mycroft and Mummy waved around the family name until Professor Garret agreed to give Sherlock 'special consideration.' It's truly amazing what money and privilege can do.

"What did you do to the poor child?" Nurse Barts asked.

"I didn't hurt John-"

"Not talking about your boyfriend," she said, kneeling next to groaning and moaning Kevin. "This child needs an ambulance."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "He needs some band aids and an ice pack. Maybe a juice box if he's still upset. John's the one who needs an ambulance."

"Sherlock," John started a strained voice. Whatever he was going to say was interrupted as Molly trotted around the corner.

"Sherlock!" she squeaked. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Kevin Little broke John's collar bone. I, in return, broke Little."

"Self defense again?" Professor Garret asked, joining the party. "Evidently not, Sherlock, considering how brutalized he is."

…

John was starting to fade in and out of consciousness. Mr. Z explained what happened as Sherlock fumed and Molly fussed. Professor Garret listened without showing any change in emotion before calmly calling an ambulance for both students.

John wasn't exactly sure, but since the only fighting he did was pushing Kevin to the ground to get him off, he wasn't in any real trouble. Sherlock was the one who was being escorted by security. John tried to protest, but no one was paying any attention to him.

Jesus, his shoulder hurt.

He leaned against the wall and slid down to the ground, his resolve to mentally separate himself from the pain crumbling as Sherlock was forced away, protesting and fussing about abandoning John the whole while.

John abruptly felt very tired. And his shoulder really did hurt a lot. His leg too. His body finally decided that unconsciousness might be easier to deal with. He closed his eyes and gave up, thinking that perhaps his collarbone was broken after all.

…

The whole school somehow found out minutes after the fight.

The attacker was trying to act calm, but in truth he was livid. Absolutely furious. He paced the hallways restlessly while John Watson was being taken to a hospital and Sherlock Holmes was facing possible expulsion in the headmaster's office.

Eventually he went into his room, sat down, and went back to fiddling with his pen. This was ridiculous. He was so close. There went all of his beautifully crafted plans.

Kevin Little. The son of a bitch was going to pay for messing everything up. He was going to face justice.

After all, no one is allowed to get in the way of the attacker's plans. Especially not where Sherlock was concerned.

_Sherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlock._

…

John woke up in the hospital, his arm and shoulder tightly bound and held in a sling. He was a bit fuzzy from pain medication, but blinked his way into alertness. He was alone, which he had to admit bothered him a little bit. Of course, neither of his parents would leave work long enough to make sure that their son was okay.

He shifted a bit. He was hooked up to an I.V. and he was trying to determine if it restricted his movements at all. He frowned. He was just slightly immobile. He wouldn't be able to get out of bed unless he carried the bag of fluids around with him.

He searched for a call button and began to press it rather insistently until someone entered his room. A very tired looking R.N. entered, followed by an irate looking Sherlock Holmes.

"Good," Sherlock said, nodding, his demeanor changing as he saw John. "You're awake. There have been some interesting developments this evening."

"Evening?" John sat up straighter. "How long was I out?"

"From the pain, probably an hour," Sherlock said. "Although you went under for a minor procedure six hours ago and are just waking up from it. It was likely exhaustion that kept you asleep, however, not the anesthesia. It is nearly ten o'clock, though."

"Procedure?" Well, that explained the bandages. "What happened?"

"Your collar bone was fractured in two places," the nurse explained. "The doctor inserted a small metal plate and screws as soon as she realized. It will keep the piece of bone from moving. Your parents signed off on everything since you weren't conscious at the time."

"My parents were here?" John asked, trying to reconcile the fact that he lost seven hours of his life.

"Went home ten minutes ago," Sherlock explained, sitting in the seat next to John's bed. The nurse shot Sherlock a look of pure hatred and began fiddling with John's bag of fluids. "I stayed. Although it took some time to persuade security and staff to allow it."

"Um, thanks mate. You didn't have to do that."

"Of course I did. Anything to get me out of the school. My hearing with the disciplinary committee is on Monday. Until then I am under an 'in school suspension.' I'm not to leave my dorm for anything other than eating and using the bathroom. Mummy worked that out for me, since she didn't want me back at the manor so close to her charity ball. She's afraid I'll blow something up again. I'm fairly certain that the Holmes family has paid for an extension to the BakerAcademy library, but at least I get to stay there."

"How did you get off campus then?" John asked as his blood pressure was taken.

"I left," Sherlock said, shrugging. "The guard who is escorting me is under Holmes family payroll. Mummy agreed to let me visit you, so I was smuggled out. Mummy is just so happy that I've made a friend, I'm pretty sure she would have bought the whole school if it meant I got to keep you."

"Keep me? Sherlock, I'm not your property."

Sherlock just gave John a look indicating that yes, in fact, he did own John. John sighed and, not for the first time that day, wondered what his life had become.

"Visiting hours ended," the nurse said pointedly as she left the room.

Sherlock ignored her.

"There's been another attack," Sherlock said calmly, the second the nurse left the room.

John sat bolt upright. "Who? When?"

"Kevin Little."

John froze. "What?"

"He was assaulted upon his return to the school." Sherlock rested his chin on the tips of his fingers. "As I anticipated, his injuries were not severe. He was sent home an hour after he arrived at the hospital. His parents determined he was okay and dropped him back at school. He arrived at seven o'clock, bandages over his-mildly-bruised ribs and an ice pack in his possession. Evidently, his parents were not overly concerned with his wellbeing. The school promised to keep an eye on him and sent him on his merry way. Somewhere between a discussion with his nurse and his room in Dorm Hall C, he was hit on the back of the head. He black out. According to his report, which I requested from Lestrade, who stole a copy from Professor Garret, he woke up in a cold room, blindfolded and bound. The attacker assaulted him without drugs, and then pressed a rag, likely soaked with chloroform, to his mouth. He was found unconscious near where we fought him and was returned to the hospital. He regained consciousness shortly after, spoke with the police and wrote his report, giving us our first description of the attacker. Garret requested a copy so he could keep a look out, and Lestrade nicked it about twenty minutes later."

Sherlock looked positively gleeful, but John could only feel sick on behalf of Kevin. Poor bloke.

"Description?" John asked. "But he was blindfolded."

"He could still give us height, weight, and the sound of the attacker's voice," Sherlock said, smiling. "We're looking for a man of slightly average height and slim, and with a deep voice."

"That sounds like you."

"Not exactly. Pay attention to the wording, John," Sherlock said with a smile. "We are looking for a  _man_ , not just  _someone_. An adult man. Little was adamant that it wasn't a student, although he couldn't put his finger on why. It's a teacher or it's administration, John. I already believed this to be the case, but this confirms it. I can narrow the search by hundreds of suspects. Oh, and you might also like to know that the student body doesn't suspect us anymore, as the attack occurred while I was under guard and you were unconscious." Sherlock leaned close to John. "We're so close that I can feel it, John. We'll have him before Monday. Just wait."

"Sherlock-"

"I know what you're going to say. Don't worry. I'll be careful."

"Like hell you will."

…

The attacker was elated. Everything had gone so well. And Sherlock would be stuck in the school the entire weekend. All he had to do now was get him alone.

The attacker paced his room with a sigh of content. Once he had Sherlock, he would stop. That was all he needed. This was his last time, he made himself promise. After this, he would step back and let the police wonder what had happened.

After thinking about it, he decided that it wouldn't be safe to have Sherlock while he was conscious and turn him loose like he did with Kevin. No, Sherlock would definitely remember too much. He would observe too much.

Much as he abhorred the idea of destroying something so beautiful, the attacker recognized that he would have to kill Sherlock Holmes.

It was really the only logical course of action.

 


	12. Chapter 12

Sherlock left the hospital the second John's pain medication wore off. John, never having broken his clavicle before, seemed, frankly, rather shocked at just how painful the experience was. When it didn't render him nearly unconscious (as it had done just after it was broken) he was swearing his lungs out in rather inventive and impressive combinations of profanity, Sherlock had to admit.

And although he was filled with concern, Sherlock could not waste time at his roommate's bedside when he had a serial rapist to catch.

John, in the meantime, yelled at everyone until the poor harassed hospital staff was allowed to administer his next dose of pain meds. He immediately passed out and stayed passed out until his mother returned in the morning to obtain a prescription, discharge her son, and take him home.

John grit his teeth and suffered through it. Home was absolutely the last place that he wanted to be.

…

"Really John, the messes that you always seem to get yourself into," Mrs. Watson was saying as she drove them home. John was doing absolutely everything he could to tune his mother out. It wasn't all that difficult, considering that he was fuzzy from painkillers in the first place.

"It's one thing to get into a fight, but to have it escalate in such a way."

Mrs. Watson was one of those people who had a habit of enunciating at least one word in each sentence in order to emphasize her point. Normally John didn't mind, he thought that it at least meant that she cared some, but at this moment he found that it grated against his nerves.

"And that roommate of yours. He was really very horrid to the poor staff at the hospital. He also said some rude things to your father. Really John, what have you been telling that boy to get all these ridiculous ideas in his head?"

John closed his eyes and pretended to fall asleep. His mother was not deterred.

"What was that fight even about?"

"He thought I was a serial rapist, Mum," John replied in a monotone. Mrs. Watson looked startled and promptly shut up. She managed the drive the rest of the way home without further comment.

…

Sherlock was, technically, not supposed to be receiving visitors, but he answered the knock on his door anyway. Molly Hooper stood there, shifting from foot to foot. The guard sitting boredly in the chair next to Sherlock's door didn't even look up.

"Do you have it then?" Sherlock asked as he let Molly into the room. She sat on the edge of John's bed and held a red folder out to Sherlock. He grabbed it and started studying the list.

"Is this about the case?" she asked, sounding nervous.

"Of course," Sherlock said. "And you're sure this is the accurate list?"

"Well, Ms. Barts never actually kept a list, but I looked through the files on the computer and was able to compile it myself."

"Are you absolutely positive that this is right?"

Molly shrugged, but her eyes held a light of certainty that Sherlock knew he could count on. "I did my best," was all she said, however.

"I don't doubt that," Sherlock muttered, more to himself than to Molly. "Quite a few people have keys to the clinic."

"Well, Ms. Barts isn't here on the weekends," Molly pointed out. "But there are students who don't go home every week. I guess its for any emergencies."

"Is it strange for almost all the staff to have access?" Sherlock asked.

Molly shrugged. "I'm not familiar with other schools. But it's not everyone. It's only administration and department heads. Although I think maintenance and cleaning have a copy for, well, maintenance and cleaning."

"I see that almost the entire science department is here," Sherlock said, sitting on the edge of his bed. "For lab accidents, I assume?"

"Yes, that was in a file," Molly said, remembering. "Apparently there was an incident a few years ago. A student got hurt, Ms. Barts was at lunch, and no one could get in. And it's not the whole science department, just the teachers with labs."

"No." Sherlock said. "Here," Sherlock pointed to a name. "His class has desks. He lectures. No labs."

Molly was thoughtful. "He used to teach chemistry, didn't he?"

"Did he?"

"Yes! I remember! It was before you were here. He switched in my second year when the old advanced biology teacher-what was her name again?-well, she had a baby and left. Professor Garret didn't have a replacement in time, so Z took the job. It was supposed to be temporary, but he said he liked the experiments so much he wanted to stay." Molly made a face. "Not that he ever lets us experiment. You're right, it isn't a lab class."

"But he has a key?"

"Don't see why he wouldn't. Unless he gave it back, but that seems like a weird thing to do, you know, in case he needed it."

…

Halfway through his next dose of pain medication, John's mobile buzzed at his bedside table. He carefully reached for it, avoiding any movements that would shift his shoulder and send along another round of pain.

He read the text:

I just sent Molly away. Now the room is too quiet. It's weird. SH

John blinked. He didn't recognize the number.

Who is this? JW

What is that after my texts? JW

Who do you think? SH

And that's a text signature. I programmed it into your phone when you were asleep. SH

Oh, Sherlock. Hi. JW

Why the text signature? JW

It makes identification easier, please keep up, John. SH.

You're being a bit rude to someone whose collar bone is broken. Speaking of which, I can only text one handed, so was there a point to this? JW

I am bored. SH

Why are you at home? You should be here. SH

I'd rather be there. JW

But, you know, broken bones. JW

And is the room really too quiet? JW

I've grown used to the sound of you muttering to yourself. SH

I do not mutter. JW

Yes, you do. SH

So was that the only reason you're texting me?

…Am I bothering you? SH

Just pain. JW  
I should be sleeping. JW  
And my parents are fussing at me for making poor decisions. JW

I can empathize. SH

Sherlock…you're capable of empathy? JW

I thought you said you were a sociopath. JW

You just contradicted yourself. JW

I'm counting this as a win. JW

Perhaps texting you was a bad idea after all. SH

No, it was a good idea. I just have to hope these meds don't wear off. JW

I miss you, surprisingly. JW

Why is that surprising? SH

Were you looking forward to spending time away from me? SH

John, I know I can be abrasive, but I really thought we were passed all of that. SH

John? SH

Are you still there? SH

Never mind. SH

…

I am so sorry. JW

My dad took my phone away and told me to get some sleep. And I'm not certain he likes you very much. JW

Sherlock? JW

I'm here. SH

And I may have said some less than nice things to your father. JW

You are abrasive, by the way. But you're right, we are passed that. JW

What did you say to Dad? JW  
Never mind. I'm dropping it. JW

And I wasn't looking forward to getting away from you. JW

There's nowhere I want to be more than sitting in our room, muttering to myself. JW

Except for maybe Disney World. I could definitely go for a trip to Disney World. JW

Disney World? Why…? SH

Happiest place on Earth, bro. JW

Ew. I wish I hadn't called you bro. JW

Is there a way to unsend that? JW

You're different in texts. SH

I have a bad case of keyboard courage. JW

I see…SH

Well, I did have a reason for texting you. SH

And what would that be? JW

Something feels wrong. SH

What? JW

Something feels wrong. I detest repeating myself John, you know that. SH

No. Sorry. You can't hear my inflections. I was asking "What feels wrong, Sherlock?" JW

I just found out some things that might tie up the case. SH

But something is still bothering me. SH

Something about dirt. SH

The soil is very important and for the life of me I can't tell you why. SH

Are you drunk? JW

Or high? JW

Neither, unfortunately. SH

I might have four nicotine patches on my arms, however. SH

Is that even safe? JW

John, I have a reputation for shooting up cocaine. Do you honestly think that I consider the safety of something before I proceed? SH

I guess not…JW

You're fussing about dirt now? JW  
What do you want me to do? JW

I don't know, say something seemingly useless that turns out to be invaluable. SH

I'm a bit fuzzy from the meds and yesterday is kind of a blur, but Z was there wasn't he? JW  
And dirt. JW

Dirt? JW  
Dirt. JW

I'll try you again after you rest. I believe your pain medication is making you incoherent. SH

…

Thoughts? SH

Creepy, I literally just woke up. JW

Well, it is in following with your circadian rhythm, adding on some time for your medication, of course. This seemed to be the most plausible time for you to regain consciousness. SH

You're right. Something feels wrong. JW

I know that. I'm looking for something more. SH

We've missed something. JW

WHAT IS BOTHERING ME? SH

Oh shit. JW

I just glanced at my pain medication fueled texts and I just realized something. JW

There's something I forgot to tell you. JW  
But it might not be important, let me check something quickly. JW

…

Hey Molly. JW

Sherlock got to your phone too? MC  
For the life of me, I can't figure out how to undo it. MC

My initials aren't even MC. Apparently he didn't want to confuse me with his brother. MC

How's the collar bone? MC

Sorry, stupid question. It must be awful. MC

Painful, but that's not important. I need to ask you something. JW

? MC

Fire away. MC

The school's greenhouse. You said it had been locked for years, right? JW

Stuck. Yeah. Why? MC

Would it hypothetically be possible to sneak into the school through the greenhouse? JW

Yeah, the security cameras there are trashed. The school hasn't replaced them because it's a dead end, but it does a have a door to the outside, also stuck. Why? MC

And please answer why, I'm going crazy. MC

John? MC

You're brilliant. Thank you. JW

John? MC

Please explain when you get the chance. MC

I will. I've got to talk to Sherlock first. Bye. JW

…

John took a moment to collect his thoughts. Oh, this could change everything. For a second, he wondered if this was how Sherlock felt, like he had just found the puzzle piece that fell under the table and suddenly everything fit perfectly.

He picked up his phone and it buzzed in his hands. He frowned, unable to recognize the number.

Is this John Watson?

Yes, can I ask who is texting? JW

Jenny Tanner.

Why the initials?

Stupid text signature. Sherlock's fault. JW

Mother of God, it will never stop. JW

Oh, I am totally going to roll with this. JT

I wanted to tell you something important. JT

I was looking through some of my old messages today, trying to put the pieces together, and I realized something. I didn't play in the game on Monday. Apparently I wasn't feeling well and I went home. I left after practice at around eight thirty. JT

I would have gone back to the school at nine, not eleven. JT

Does this make a difference? JT

This makes a huge difference. JW

I think this might be one of the last pieces, but I'm not Sherlock, so I'm not sure. JW

Really? Oh, thank God. JT

Thank you so much for telling me. Did you contact the police? JW

You first. You're doing more than the police have been. JT

I'll tell Sherlock. He'll flip out. JW

…

Two things. JW

Number one, Jenny just texted me and she had alerted me that she did not play in the game, and arrived back at the school at nine instead. JW

Sherlock? JW

Reviewing footage. Jenny enters the school at nine o'clock. Z exits moments after. SH

She's the person Z passed! John, this might change everything. SH

Don't rush off yet. I know how the attacker got into the school. JW

If you recall, you sent me around the science wing trying to figure out where the dirt was coming from. Due to extenuating circumstances, I was never able to tell you, but not a single class had potting soil. JW

Now, how would POTTING SOIL, not dirt, POTTING SOIL, get all over the hallway if no one tracked it from a classroom. JW

No one tracks POTTING SOIL from outside. They track DIRT. SOIL for PLANTING THINGS comes from one very specific place.

The greenhouse. JW

Stuck. SH

Don't be silly, John. SH

What was that crap you kept telling me? JW  
Eliminate the impossible and all that junk? JW  
Well, think for a second Sherlock. Where else could anyone have tracked potting soil from unless someone was just dragging a bag of it around for fun? JW

And have you ever actually checked the door? JW

John you bloody brilliant SH

Thank you. JW

How could I have been so blind? SH

I am sorry for every time I've called you stupid. You're fantastic. SH

I am speechless with this level of praise. JW

I can't believe we were right this entire time. I have to go investigate. SH

WHY HAS NO ONE EVEN TRIED TO OPEN THE DOOR. SH

You're investigating now? JW

Don't go alone Sherlock! JW

Sherlock? JW

Don't you dare do something dangerous alone. JW

I promised Mrs. Hudson. JW

She'll eat me if you get hurt. JW

Sherlock? JW

…

Green house is un-stuck. JW

I don't know how, but we think that's how the attacker got in the school. JW

Sherlock's gone running off by himself. Don't let him get hurt. JW

I won't. MC

…

John was awoken Sunday morning by the insistent pounding at the front door. He rolled out of bed from habit, but froze once his shoulder caught up to what he was doing. He sat on the edge of his bed, breathing heavily through clenched teeth instead.

The pounding persisted, however, and John staggered to his feet when it became apparent that no one else was going to answer the door.

"Alright! Alright! Calm down!" John called irritably. "What is this, a raid? There is no need to abuse the door. I'll be there in a moment." The last part was muttered to himself as he slowly worked his way to the door in his stocking feet.

John had the feeling that he knew who it was before he actually opened the door.

"Good morning, John. Happy Sunday," Sherlock said, forcing his way into the house and strutting to the kitchen as though he lived there. "I don't suppose the kettle is warm? Cold, damn. John, make me tea!"

"I have one arm!" John yelled, following after the mad bastard.

"You're left handed anyway, you'll make do!" Sherlock's words were accompanied clattering and cupboards slamming. John entered the kitchen and just watched Sherlock buzz around like a bumble bee on meth. He jumped from one end of the small room to the other, touched everything, and did nothing useful.

"Move it, you arse," John muttered, grabbing two mugs that were drying by the sink. "I'd ask you how you found out where I lived, but that's probably a stupid question."

"I hack school records daily. I think you already have the answer."

"Good point." John filled the kettle one handed and set it up, hoping that the water boiled quickly and John could spike his system with some much needed caffeine. John glanced at the clock on the microwave and sighed, understanding why no one else woke to answer the door.

"Sherlock," John said, getting the tea from the cupboard, "it's seven in the morning on a Sunday. Could this have waited?"

"We have a serial rapist to catch, John," Sherlock said, his eyes bright and his fingers twitching. "No time to be lost. Where is everyone else?" Sherlock asked, looking around before he answered his own question. "Oh, your father is passed out drunk, Harry is at Uni, and your mother...hm…" Sherlock glanced around. "She should have heard me knock. Oh, she took sleeping pills rather late last night. Be dead to the world for a while, I'm afraid. Is this what all Sundays are like here?"

John got the milk as the water boiled. He set down the carton and clicked off the kettle. "Pretty much," John sighed. "You've already noticed that I don't go home on the weekends."

"Of course I notice. You hang around the room and make noise for forty eight solid hours. How could I have missed it?"

"Milk? Sugar?" John asked as the tea steeped.

"Both. Slosh of milk, spoonful of sugar."

John prepared their cups and sat down at the small, worn table.

"Have a sit, then," John said, gesturing to the chair opposite. "I'm sure you came here to talk about something."

"I came here to get you out of this horrid house, John," Sherlock said, taking the seat. "And I'm not referring to the interior decorating. You don't belong here. You belong at Baker Academy, and you belong at my side when I put the last pieces together."

John grinned and tried to hide it by taking a sip of tea. "What have you done since yesterday?"

"Rethinking everything," Sherlock said. "I haven't been able to leave the dorm, of course. I got out today because I told Professor Garret that I was going to a church service."

John snorted and nearly spit out his tea. "Jeez, did he believe you?"

Sherlock smiled. "Not even slightly. But he knew that if he forced me to stay that I could kick up a bit fuss that would make him look bad. So he let me go with the promise that I wouldn't do anything to get myself arrested. Which would make him look worse. Anyway, I haven't been able to check the greenhouse door, but I texted Molly and she confirmed that the door was locked, but did not appear completely stuck."

"Anything you've put together?" John asked.

"Oh, everything," Sherlock said with a positively demented smile. "We just need the proof."

"And how do you plan to get that?" John asked before he suddenly set his mug down. "What do you mean, 'everything?' Do you know who did it?"

"Of course I know who did it," Sherlock scoffed, as though it would be obvious. "I've known from nearly the beginning. I simply discounted it because it seemed impossible. But the greenhouse-oh, the greenhouse made everything fall into place."

"You don't mean-"

"Mr. Zach, our sadistic biology teacher, has been conducting some rather horrid experiments these days, wouldn't you say? And he does love his experiments."

…

"Don't you dare run after him."

"Calm down, John," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "I promise to follow the plan."

"That's shite and we both know it."

Sherlock sighed. John looked especially tiny, with his arm bound tightly to his chest and his body hunched and weary from pain and medication. The bandage on his shoulder covered the line of stitches, but Sherlock knew that his roommate would forever have a scar across his right shoulder. Sherlock felt a pang of remorse. It was his fault. Everything bad that happened to John had been his fault.

What if full mobility never returned? Sherlock would be at fault. He wasn't going to let John pay for this association anymore. Of course Sherlock's promise was shite. There was no way he was going to let John get hurt again.

But Sherlock didn't say anything of this. He just smiled and made his promise again and turned to leave that depressing little house.

He quickly turned his mind away from John to focus on his more pressing concerns.

Namely, everything he was going to do to Z to make him pay.

...

Mr. Z relaxed in his chair and fiddled with a pen as he thought.

Sherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlocksherlock.

How could he possibly have missed it for so long? Sherlock was perfection. And to think that he had been nothing more than an annoyance only days before.

Oh, this was going to be glorious.

 


	13. Chapter 13

John realized something was wrong, very, very wrong, when Sherlock didn't show up that evening.

As evening turned into night, John knew that his friend was in trouble.

Goddammit, Sherlock.

…

Seven hours earlier...

Sherlock waltzed back onto school grounds as though he had every right to come and go.

The guard outside his room was reading a magazine. He nodded at Sherlock's return and didn't ask any questions. Sherlock couldn't deny that his mother had good taste when it came to 'security.' He went back into his room to think.

Mr. Zach. Mr. Isaac Zach.

Z.

How could someone be so...horrible? Sherlock didn't often question mad men. He didn't wonder why a serial killer became a serial killer, or why petty disputes ended in blood and death. Such things were pedestrian, they were beneath him. But this…

This felt, deep inside Sherlock's core, very wrong. More wrong than he cared to admit. It filled him disgust, abhorration.

Hate.

How dare he do that to these girls?

But, more importantly, how did he do it?

And why?

…

Molly knew that she shouldn't be acting without Sherlock's permission. It was almost as though she was a soldier awaiting orders. Commander Holmes called all the shots. She wasn't allowed to show initiative. She wasn't smart enough for it. It would inevitably go wrong.

But she just had to check.

After all, she may not be as smart as Sherlock, but she wasn't stupid. She put the pieces together easily enough.

She just couldn't understand why Mr. Z would do such a thing.

He seemed...well, he seemed a little off, now that she thought about it, but he hadn't seemed like someone who was physically capable of causing so much pain, of taking so much pleasure in violating someone that way.

It made her feel like she wanted to throw up. It made her feel like she wanted to cry. It made her feel like she wanted to hurt him.

She settled for doing the one thing she knew she could check up on.

Spending as much time with Sherlock as she did taught her a few things. She made the necessary investment over the summer break, but this was the first time she was really going to use it, not just practice with it.

Molly Hooper waited until the hallway was clear before she knelt down in front of the greenhouse door and took out her lock picking kit.

…

Sherlock's phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and checked the I.D. He sighed as he answered it. At least Molly knew by now not to bother him with unimportant things while he had a case on.

"Sherlock," Molly said, sounding breathy. "Sherlock, I've just unlocked the greenhouse door."

Sherlock immediately got to his feet. "What are you doing?! Have you been seen?"

"No," she said, "I'm alone. I just...I'm a little scared but I'm going to open the door now."

"Don't touch anything," Sherlock ordered. "But describe what you see." He wasn't going to waste the data, at least. This might fill in the last few holes. "And run if you see Z."

"Of course," she said. There was a pause. "Oh, Jesus Christ."

"What is it?"

"Well," Molly said, her breathing erratic. "The windows are blacked out from the outside, but you knew that. There's plants and pots and... there's blood." Her voice broke on the last word.

"Blood? How much blood?"

"Lots of blood," Molly whimpered. "It's splattered. I can't understand the patterns, but I'm sure you could. There's splashes on the ground. It's-it's a lot if blood Sherlock."

"Alright Molly," Sherlock said, trying to put a soothing note in his voice. "Just close the door and leave. Do you hear me? Close the door and walk away quickly. You haven't seen anything. You don't know anything. Come to my room, we'll talk. But just leave before you're seen."

"I'm going to take a picture," Molly said, ignoring Sherlock. "That way you can see it."

Sherlock started getting a very bad feeling. He wasn't John, prone to trusting intuition, but he didn't think it wise to ignore this.

"No, it's fine. Just leave. Go. I mean it."

There was a long pause. "Fine," Molly said. "I'll go, just-"

Molly screamed.

"GODDAMMIT!" Sherlock yelled, rushing out of the room.

"You're not supposed to leave," the guard started.

Sherlock ignored him and started sprinting down the corridor.

…

Six hours later…

John gave up and put on his coat. He ignored his parents, who were trying to keep him inside, and just started to run.

He got a taxi as soon as one was in sight and ordered the cabbie to take him to Baker Academy.

He just prayed that Sherlock was alright.

…

Six hours earlier...

Sherlock found Molly on the floor. He sighed in relief when he saw her breathing.

The feeling of relief crashed around him when he saw the blood matting her hair to her head.

She was attacked from behind. She struggled, but lost. She was forced with her back against the wall when her head hit. Attacker (Z? Likely.) heard a cracking sound and panicked. Left her here to be found. Hoping it would look like an accident.

Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialed an ambulance. He didn't think that she would die, but if she didn't get help soon, she could suffer serious brain damage.

Z would definitely pay for this.

…

Six and a half hours later…

Baker Academy came into sight as John's phone rang. He picked up without checking the number.

"John?" a sleepy voice said.

"Molly?" John confirmed, placing the voice.

"John, I just woke up," she said.

"I'm sorry? Look Molly, I need to go-"

"In the hospital," she continued. "Head hurts. Z...hurt me. Sherlock...get Sherlock, alright? Have to go, not supposed to use phone. Help Sherlock...in trouble."

John literally threw the money at the cabbie and launched himself out of the cab.

…

Two hours earlier…

Sherlock should have left to get John a half an hour ago, but there were more important things to do.

Sorry John.

He had lost valuable time talking to the EMT's, and then talking to the police. He still had a few loose ends to tie off, then he and John could detain Z and get Detective Inspector Grayson. He just had to be sure.

He had to see the greenhouse himself.

It was the last piece of the puzzle. He knew everything else. He knew what happened with Jenny, he knew how Nicole was targeted, he knew when Izzy was taken, and he had a very good idea regarding the motive behind Kevin's attack.

What had Z said? That everyone met justice?

That's how he saw that last attack, as justice. Justice for hurting John.

Sherlock had the feeling John had been targeted by Z. There was no way he was letting his roommate anywhere near that psychopath. That was something he simply could not allow to happen.

…

Two hours later…

John ran into the school, ran past security, and positively sprinted to his dorm room. This was made awkward by his sling and bandages. Not to mention extremely painful.

There was a rather nondescript guard sitting outside the room.

"Not here," the guard said. "Hasn't been here for a few hours."

"Son of bitch…" John said, gasping for a moment before he turned to run again. He had a hunch that he knew where Sherlock was going to be.

John texted as he ran and prayed that there would be a response.

…

Oh, he was beautiful. His eyes were closed in unconsciousness, but Z knew that they would be that haunting silver blue. He knew that beautiful white skin would look so...breathtaking….when it was bloodied and bruised.

Part of Z wondered if there was something wrong with him. He hadn't used to think this way.

Or had he? How many years had he spent watching these beautiful young women living their lives, unaware of their vulnerability? How long had he thought about the twisted beauty of pain? Had it been forever?

Was he born this way? Was there anything wrong with that?

Z didn't know if he cared. He just knew that he was going to stop after Sherlock. Sherlock was the final hit, the goodbye to this whole thing. After all, no future victim would be able to compare to Sherlock Holmes. No one would ever be as vulnerable.

Z waited for his love to wake up.

...

Sherlock opened his eyes. He blinked until his vision cleared up. It was dark, and it smelled like rot. He could make out the shape of shelves and pots. He was sitting in dirt. There was blood on the walls and the ceiling.

Shite.

"Good, you're finally awake," said a voice that sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine.

"Z," Sherlock gasped, his voice rough. "I guess you got me."

"Yes," Z said, sounding delighted. He knelt in front of Sherlock. "I've finally got you."

"What are you going to do?" Sherlock asked, struggling for a moment before he recognized that his hands were bound by zip ties. "Keep me out of the way while you go after John?"

Z laughed. A genuine, shoulder shaking, gut busting laugh.

"John? John Watson? Don't be so ridiculous, love. This is just between you and me."

Z ran a hand through his brown hair and smiled. "You're so beautiful. It'll be an honor to mark your skin."

…

John stopped running just before he came up to the greenhouse and caught his breath. He realized that he didn't know what he was going to do if he found Sherlock in Z's clutches, but he knew that he couldn't just burst through the door. He had to plan everything out.

Or at least, make some sort of plan so he didn't lose his mind before he could act.

…

"Let's talk first," Sherlock said, a visceral, primal panic rising in his chest. He had to do something, do anything to stall. He had to stall long enough for John to get here.

Because of course John was coming. He had to be.

"We have time," Z said, looking amused. "What do you want to talk about?" He raised his hand and trailed his fingertips down the side of Sherlock's face. Sherlock swallowed his revulsion and utilized every ounce of his self control not to flinch back. "I'm afraid you won't convince me to let you go. I've been waiting too long for this."

"Jenny," Sherlock started. Z smiled at the name. "Jenny, she was a catalyst. She was a tease. You pursued her and she shot you down, right?"

Z's smile turned into a frown. "I know you're just trying to distract me. But honestly," Z leaned closer, "I want to make this last as long as I can. So I'll play your game, Sherlock. Just don't think that you're winning it."

Z leaned back again. "Jenny was...a catalyst is a good word. I've always admired my students. Especially the girls with unblemished skin. I've always wondered what I could do to it. I've wanted to be the first to mark it. But Jenny...she wasn't unmarked, I could see that. She liked the throw herself at men, and then run away if they showed interest back. I was one of them. It...hurt to see all her interest vanish as soon as it was returned. She only liked the chase. I, however, like the kill."

Sherlock wanted to throw up on this sick excuse for a human being, but he controlled himself.

"I saw her walking in the school. I wouldn't have done anything until I saw her walking by, then I just wondered...what if? Her hair was tangled, and she just...smelled like sex. I'd never wanted her more, never wanted anyone that much, so...I decided the take what I wanted. I was very tired of this chase, I was ready to end it."

"So you left the school," Sherlock interrupted. "Then you went around, avoiding the security cameras, and went to the greenhouse, which you had fixed during the summer holiday. You snuck in, doubled back to the nurse and stole the Xyrem. You knew about Anthony Blithe's medication because he had signed up for your class, but switched out due to scheduling conflicts. You'd already been informed of his condition, however, so you decided to take advantage of this drug."

Sherlock let the deductions fire off, the product of hours of research and investigation. It calmed him down slightly, helped him focus. He didn't think that he would have much time. Despite Z's apparent willingness to delay, and savior the moment, he believed, the attacker was getting fidgety. He was shifting his weight, his cold gaze darting all over Sherlock's body hungrily.

Z nodded. "Yes, then I went to Miss Tanner's room. I said that I believed she had left some books in my classroom, and that she could pick them up if she wanted. She's a good student, compulsive. She likes to have all her supplies ready, much more than she would ever need. Of course she'd want anything she had forgotten. She didn't really trust me, but she followed me anyway. After all, I'm a teacher."

"No books, of course," Sherlock said. "But you administered the Xyrem orally, how?"

"In a drink, of course. I said I was sorry for wasting her time and gave her a cup of tea as an apology. I guess I never really thought that she would drink it. I thought, if she was stupid enough to drink it, then she deserved it."

"She drank it," Sherlock sighed.

"Only a swallow or so, then she left. I think she was just trying to be polite. She didn't want to upset me. She seemed...nervous, I guess."

"Then you waited a few hours and went back to her room."

"She'd left the door unlocked," Z said conspiratorially. "She was feeling the effects already and just left it unlocked. All I had to do was walk in and-"

"Yes," Sherlock interrupted. "And you enjoyed it so much that you couldn't wait to experience it again. You bought GHB off the street that day and waited for the first chance to use it. Let me guess, you chose Nicole because she found out about the greenhouse."

Z's eyes were bright. "Very good, Sherlock. She was messing with the door knob. She realized it wasn't stuck anymore and...well, she was such a pretty girl anyway. I guess she was a bit of an impulse buy. But I think I hit two birds with one stone. She didn't remember the greenhouse and really, she was delightful."

"She was going to miss school," Sherlock continued, knowing that he was very nearly out of time and that he couldn't stop the conversation for even an instant. "She told Henderson that her roommate was in a study group and could help her catch up. You knew that she would be alone in her dorm for a few hours."

Z smiled, looking at Sherlock with something so close to love, but so twisted and perverse that the light in his eyes didn't even seem human. "Yes," Z sighed, sounding distant, lost in his own thoughts. "I said that Henderson gave me some work for her, and she just let me into her room. She didn't know why I locked the door behind me, and she struggled before I got the injection in her. She stopped fighting quickly after that."

"You took Izzy when she was hanging up flyers," Sherlock said. "You took her here. That's why there's blood. The splatter pattern in consistent with her wounds."

"I was a bit angry at her," Z said, sounding regretful. "And Kevin, of course, was just practice for you. But this is getting boring Sherlock. I'm tired of your game, I'm tired of your stalling. Let's play my game now. Here are the rules: don't scream. Ready? Set? Go."

…

John crept up to the door and checked the handle. Locked, of course. John wasn't sure that he wanted to just kick the thing open, and he could hardly pick the lock one handed.

"Need some help, mate?" came a whisper from the end of the hall.

"Thank God, Greg," John mouthed. "I think he's in there. Can you pick a lock?"

"I've got something better," Greg said, holding up a lanyard. "I've got the keys. No one's needed them in years. I nicked them on the way here."

John noticed for the first time that Greg was gasping for air. At least John wasn't the only one who had been sprinting down the hallways like a maniac.

"Toss them," John said. Greg complied and John caught the lanyard one handed. "Let's hope that this door doesn't unlock too loudly."

…

There was the sound of a door unlocking. Sherlock processed the sound the second it began and started screaming to cover up the noise.

Z smacked him hard across the face.

"I said that you weren't allowed to scream," Z said. "Now, where were we?" Z went back to removing Sherlock's shoes. Sherlock kicked and struggled, but Z was stronger.

Sherlock looked up at the door with hope and saw it open so slowly the movement almost went unnoticed. John's head peeked through the opening and Sherlock did everything he could not to start crying in relief. He had to keep Z's attention.

"Please," Sherlock gasped, trying to keep an appropriate level of fear in his voice. "Please don't do this."

"Are you a virgin, Sherlock?" Z asked, hooking a finger under Sherlock's belt. "Please tell me you are. It will make it so much better for me."

"Please stop," Sherlock begged, trying to crawl away.

"Don't be scared," Z said, his voice dropping to a pitch the man likely thought was soothing. "I'll be gentle."

…

John heard Sherlock scream.

John had never wanted to murder someone before.

He really wanted to murder someone now.

He decided he was going to murder Z.

Yeah, good choice.

But how?

John knew that he couldn't just stampede in the room. He knew some tackling techniques from rugby, but he couldn't guarantee that Z wasn't armed. He very likely was armed. It hadn't escaped his notice that Sherlock wasn't drugged, or that Z was making no effort to hide his face.

It was with a sickening certainty that John realized Sherlock wasn't supposed to survive this.

There had to be something.

John glanced back into the hallway and nodded to Greg. Greg took off down the hall, taking his cellphone out of his pocket to call the police.

Ideally, John could just stand guard until the police came with guns to save Sherlock, but John honestly didn't believe that he had enough time. He had to stop Z now, or else it might be too late for Sherlock.

And John wasn't going to just stand by and watch this vile excuse for a human being rape his best friend.

He poked his head back in the room and, trying to ignore his struggling roommate and the son of a bitch tormenting him, tried to locate a weapon.

There.

John stepped into the room, awkwardly maneuvering his immobilized shoulder and trying not to make a sound.

He reached across his body to pick up the garden spade with his left hand. He gripped it tightly and stepped forward.

"Let's see if you'll as delicious as you look," Z said, bring his hands to Sherlock's belt buckle.

John didn't let him do anything else.

With one swift arc of his arm, John plunged the spade into Z's back.

Z screamed and slumped over, writing on the ground. It was music to John's ears.

"Thank Christ," Sherlock said, collapsing back and breathing heavily. "About time you showed up, John."

Sherlock was pale and sweating. He looked terrified and disgusted and like he was about to throw up. John only spared a glance to be sure that Sherlock wasn't bleeding or broken before planting his foot on Z's spine. The spade had gone in just beneath his right shoulder blade. There didn't appear to be any blood spurts of trauma to the muscle or bone. He was in pain, but not in danger of dying.

Unless he got an infection from the spade, which John prayed would happen.

John left the spade in as well. It was currently acting to stop the bleeding, and John didn't want the teacher dying right there. Well, he did, but he didn't want to go to prison.

"He didn't…" John started.

"I kept him distracted," Sherlock said, shaking his head in answer. "He had just...started...when you unlocked the door.

Z started going into shock beneath John's foot.

"Do you want him to die?" John asked, knowing that it was completely in his power to make it happen. He did, however, think that the choice should be Sherlock's.

Sherlock paused and seriously considered the answer. He knew exactly what John was offering and everything it implied.

"I really don't want you to go to prison," Sherlock finally sighed. "Although I would like to for that sick bastard to die, I think that it should happen slowly and painfully. Not just letting him bleed out on the floor. I'll speak to Mycroft about it. He might be able to deal with him more effectively."

…

The police came, the EMT's came, the headmaster came, Greg came back after getting the police and ambulance, John's parents showed up, and so did Mycroft.

A lot of people were crowded into the science hallway.

The EMTs took Z away. They didn't ask about how the spade became lodged in his back, but Sherlock was certain that everyone knew.

Sherlock just wanted them all to go away. He wanted John's parents to leave him alone, he wanted the police to stop trying to charge John with attempted murder (Detective Inspector Grayson kept shutting those police up, but they were still annoying), he wanted Greg to stop asking him if he was okay, and he wanted a moment alone with Mycroft to make sure that Isaac Zach never made it to his prison cell alive.

The last one turned out to be unnecessary, as Mycroft merely met Sherlock's eyes once and nodded.

Satisfied, Sherlock went back to abusing police officers and arguing with John's parents.

Sherlock hated John's father. He was a burly man who reeked of alcohol and, yes, smacked John around when he was less than satisfied with his son.

Now, however, his parents were puffed up with pride.

"I can't believe that my son caught a criminal," Mrs. Watson kept saying.

"That was bloody dangerous," Mr. Watson said. "But you did good. Never let the bad guys get away with it. I've taught you well, son."

John's expressing was rapidly closing off as he realized that he, even if it was for a very good reason, had behaved as his father would have. Violently. Remorselessly.

Sherlock could tell that John was soon going to regret his actions. He had to fix that. Quickly.

Except Sherlock didn't really know how to do that. He decided to give it a guess and hope that no one got the wrong idea.

Sherlock hugged John very tightly.

"I will never," Sherlock whispered, "be able to thank you for this. Never. Not properly, at least." Sherlock realized with embarrassment that his voice cracked and...were those tears?! Was he crying?! Oh, this was just humiliating.

John returned the hug one armed. "I'm sorry I didn't get there sooner. You know, before..."

"He took off my shoes and touched my belt," Sherlock said, pulling away. "You weren't exactly too late."

Sherlock turned away and rubbed his eyes. "Anyway, that was...what you did there? That was good. Thank you. I'm sure you'll need to be getting home now. You're probably late on your pain medication."

Sherlock left as soon as he could. John did the same.

Sherlock took a very long shower, trying to rid himself of the crawling feeling under his skin. And then, because he was alone and he couldn't hold it in anymore, he let out the huge sobs that ripped through his throat and shook his entire body.

He had only had his shoes taken off, yet he had never felt so violated in his life.

He couldn't even imagine how the other girls felt.

For the first time in a long time, Sherlock felt a glimmer of what must have been empathy.

Not a sociopath after all, then.

 


	14. Chapter 14

"Go away," John ordered the second that Sherlock crossed the threshold into his messy bedroom. "I hurt."

"Well, this is what happens when you run around stabbing people with spades when your collar bone is broken. You feel sore afterwards," Sherlock said, smiling slightly.

"Don't talk like you've run experiments on the topic," John grumbled.

"It is merely a logical observation, John," Sherlock said, glancing around the room. "So…" he started awkwardly.

"You have something you want to tell me," John said with a sigh. "You're making the face you make when you have something you want to tell me but you're not sure how to say it."

Sherlock looked surprised. "I didn't realize you spent time cataloguing my facial expressions."

"Not particularly, but I know that one. What is it you wanted to tell me?"

"That a certain ex-teacher of ours was severely injured in a car accident on his way to jail, where he was to be held until his hearing. He isn't expected to survive, but fortunately he was able to write down his confession before this twist of fate. There will be a follow up investigation, but the case is essentially closed."

John didn't say anything for a moment. "Hm. Accident."

"Such things happen, John," Sherlock said with wide eyed innocence. "In a universe of infinite probability, anything can happen."

"And there's something else," John prompted. Sherlock broke into an enormous smile.

"Detective Inspector Grayson has offered me a job. Well, sort of. And I can't get it until I graduate. But he says that he will be able to call me in as a consultant. A consulting detective. For real, John. I don't have to run around looking for trouble anymore."

"I bloody knew you were intentionally trying to raise havoc."

"Not raise it, just find it. There's a difference."

John settled into the pillows on his bed and watched Sherlock snoop through his room. Sherlock appeared avidly interested with even the most mundane things, examining a clarinet reed for much longer than strictly necessary.

"It's for the clarinet, Sherlock," John finally said. Sherlock gave him a look.

"Of course its for the clarinet, I know its for the clarinet. Have you considered playing clarinet for the school?"

John shrugged with his good shoulder. "Maybe. I would have like to have done rugby, but I think that's mostly out of the question now." He paused. "I'm absolutely rubbish at the clarinet, though."

"You think I don't know that?" Sherlock said with a smile. He looked around the room again and abruptly closed off, focusing his gaze on his feet.

"What?"

"Well," Sherlock started. "It's just…" he trailed off. "I mean, I know that you said you were going to keep me safe, but things got a lot more dangerous for you than we've ever planned. And I don't want you to feel like you're under any obligation to continue your association with me. I know that the recent events must have-"

"Stop," John ordered, sitting back up. "Sherlock, do you legitimately think that you have scared me away?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Logical assumption, most people are put off by the idea of stabbing people with garden spades." Sherlock swallowed. "I don't want you to feel like to need to continue putting yourself through such things just because-"

"Sherlock, if you think for one second that I would ever leave you to do this alone, you're the biggest idiot on the face of the planet."

Sherlock bristled and opened his mouth to speak, but John cut him off.

"No, let me speak. Sherlock, you must be mad to think that I'm tired of this, tired of you. I swear, I have never felt truly alive until I was sprinting down hallways and watching your back. And we did something good, something truly, truly good. We stopped someone who liked to cause others pain. We stopped someone who would have otherwise gotten away, and I am so proud of that. I am proud of us. Of course, it was scary, and I'd rather not have to respond violently in the future, but every day you're putting yourself in danger, I will be standing by your side to make sure that you come back in one piece. I'm your best friend, Sherlock. It's my bloody job."

Sherlock was at a loss for words. He shifted from foot to foot before nodding abruptly and turning away. "Good," he said. "That's good. Well, I wish you a speedy recovery. I believe I will be seeing you at school again next week."

"Don't do anything stupid before then," John called. "I'd hate to miss it."

Sherlock turned back and favored John with a smile that stretched from ear to ear. "Wouldn't dream of it. I would be lost without my roommate."

THE END

 

**Author's Note:**

> This has been published in its entirety on fanfiction.net.  
> Also, I have a shiny new tumblr at emptycel.tumblr.com  
> Follow for updates and ficlets and stuffs.


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